


Diving into Icy Darkness

by inuvik



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman (Movies 1989-1997)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-08 09:04:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 87,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inuvik/pseuds/inuvik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rough winter is at Gotham's gates. An icy one awaits Batman. Post The Dark Knight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

_AN: Hi :-)_

_Thank you for clicking on my story. I do hope you will enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Also, please, feel free to send me some feedback. Writing is a solitary adventure, though not so much when one publishes one's works on a forum._

_When I began writing this story two years ago, it was about minus twenty outside (-4F) without the wind factor... the freezing cold Canadian winter was my first source of inspiration; then, I added "It's probably me" from Clapton, a jug of burning coffee, and a couple of other songs came along. And here is "Diving Into Icy Darkness" :-)_

_Guess what? It's still minus twenty outside! Somethings in life never change... high time to finish this_ _fic._

_This story is also a tribute to Alfred Pennyworth, the silent guardian behind the Dark Knight._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Batman and most of the other characters appearing in this fic. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun writing_ _adventures :-)_

 

* * *

**Chapter 1**

 

 

 

Four feet of snow and freezing temperatures had struck the city since the beginning of December, and according to the forecast, white, heavy clouds coming directly from Canada's rough climate were bringing more polar weather Gotham's way.

Near the banks in a badly lit street behind a convenient store, it was not the coldness that made Bullock's hands shake. With a curse, he tried to light up his first cigarette in two months with difficulty while Montoya puked all her guts out in a nearby recess between two garbage dumpsters.

"Fuck..." Gordon said, averting his eyes from the body on the ground, while the forensics team cordoned-off the area behind him.

 _Just what this city needed_ , he thought, horrified.

"Commissioner? Commissioner Gordon? A word please!"

"Damn journalists..." he muttered.

How the hell did they learn so fast about the most abject crimes, he had no idea. Maybe they were stalking him or had wiretapped his cell phone? They had to be doing one or the other, because he was never called on open police channels where the public could overhear.

"Miss?" he said, staring at the blonde woman heading toward him at a determined pace from a corner of the street that had not been secured yet.

"Vale, Vicky Vale," the journalist replied, extending her gloved hand.

"This is a crime scene, Miss Vale, so I'm forced to ask you to move behind the security perimeter and not to disturb the police officers while they do their job," he said, not letting himself be softened up by the young woman's charming smile, nor accepting the handshake either, hoping that his rough attitude would make her retreat.

"Their job, Commissioner? If they had done it in the first place, I wouldn't be here freezing my ass to do mine. Tell me, do I have to warn the citizens about a serial killer lurking in the dark streets?" she replied, not moving a toe.

"Move back now or I may be tempted to open an inquiry on how you got the information that a crime had been committed here."

The condescending expression on the woman's face told him that his threat had not hit home.

"Come on Commissioner, I'm working in the field for long enough to know my rights. And do you really think that would stop me from doing my job? By the way, another person who can't be stopped is the Batman. How do you explain your men's lack of success? It's been more than a year now."

Gordon briefly averted his eyes to cast a look at his men, although it was more to hide a flash of despair and anger in his eyes than to check his troops.

"He's an intelligent opponent," he muttered, taking a deep breath to ease his nerves.

"Like Freeze?"

"Sorry, who?" he replied, certain that he had seen a shadow moving on a fire escape three floors above the corpse.

"Freeze. It's what the press is calling the killer. Because of the way he-"

"I see what you mean, no need to elaborate. Now move away or I'll get you arrested for trespassing on a scene crime and obstructing an investigation. You do know your rights, don't you?"

"All right. You win, Commissioner. A last thing though..."

A sudden bright light blinded him as the journalist took a picture of him.

"Thank you," she said with a smirk as she turned on her heels, and moved away at a brisk pace toward a black van harboring the red and blue logo of Gotham's  _Globe and Mail_.

As the vehicle skidded on the ice and drove away, Gordon shook his head, feeling a mix of relief to be rid of the woman, and annoyance at the same time. For sure, the camera's objective was a wide angle, and Vale had managed to take a nice snapshot of the crime scene that would appear on the front page tomorrow morning.

"Trouble, sir?" Montoya said, stopping at his side.

"No more than usual, Lieutenant," he replied, massaging his eyes to remove the blinding sparks and luminous spots caused by the flash. "So, what do we have?"

"We found an admission ticket for the exhibition inside the body, sir," Montoya replied, clenching her jaw tight as she lowered her gaze on the snow covered ground.

"You're okay, Lieutenant?"

The young, brown-haired woman exhaled slowly, and nodded. "Yeah... sorry for that, sir. It's just that I was having dinner when we've been called to the scene, and it's the first time that I work on a case like this, sir."

"No need to be sorry. If it can be of any comfort, it's my first time too, and I'm quite relieved to have my own stomach empty," Gordon replied. "I want the forensics report on my desk first thing tomorrow," he added, casting a last glance at the scene before heading wearily toward his vehicle.

As Gordon started his engine, his cell phone vibrated. A quick look told him where Gotham's vigilante wanted to meet him.

Cursing once more against the forced clandestine meetings, he turned right at the red light, and drove towards a dump site on the outskirts of Gotham, only five minutes from his position. Although the streets in the sector were deserted as soon as the night fell, this was a bit too close to the crime scene for his liking.

The Batman was taking too many risks lately. Since October, the sad anniversary month of the Joker's killings, reports said that he was out at dusk, and often seen till dawn.

What kind of life the man must lead... cleaning up Gotham's streets from drug dealers and thieves, avoiding the traps that the Mob's assassins set for him, and all the while being hunted by the police.

How could he hold on? Was his carelessness and risk-taking some kind of a distress beacon, a sign that he had reached the end of his rope, and wanted to be caught? Like every other human, the man hiding behind the feared cowl had limits.

Gordon took a deep breath to control a rising ire at the ordeal the Dark Knight had willingly accepted to suffer in order to save Dent's reputation, and keep the citizens' faith in justice.

In many ways chilled to the bone, Gordon stopped his old Ford sedan in the dark shadow of a mound of earth, and stepped out.

"The second murder this week," said Batman's creepy growl. "The fourth since the opening of the Bodies Exhibition."

Not as startled by Batman's sudden appearance as he had been at the beginning, Gordon turned around and stared at the darkness. Between the mound and a garbage container, Gotham's hated savior's shadow slowly emerged.

"Yeah. We've got a serious problem. There are discussions about closing the Bodies exhibition."

"He's a copy-cat serial killer. Now that he's set on it, I don't think closing the exhibition will make any difference."

"I agree with you, but details have started to leak to the media. The organizers might decide for us. That's not exactly the effect they wanted to create."

"If they do, there's no telling what the killer will do. If they move the exhibit, he may follow it. It would only be sending the problem to another city."

"At the risk of looking selfish, I'm not sure how I would truly feel if that happened..." Gordon replied, averting his eyes to look at the urban lights reflecting on the clouds, coloring the night in shades of dirty orange tones. "Falcone's only son arrived in town this afternoon," he said, changing the subject, "The rumors say he's quite a frivolous young man, heir of the empire his mother's family owned. Although his motives to come here seem official, I wouldn't trust him. What kind of son would not want to avenge his father? Be careful."

"What can he do that hasn't been done already?"

"Just for once, humor me," Gordon winced.

"I'll put him under close watch."

"Glad to hear. A last thing before you... disappear in smoke," he added, a little too late. With a stream of air, Batman was gone. "I saw you on that damned fire exit..." he muttered.

Now dreaming about a good night rest – something he was aware was highly improbable after what happened tonight – he wearily walked back toward his car. At least, the warmness of his couch would bring him some comfort. God knew that he needed some.


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

When Bruce pushed open the door of his penthouse bedroom the next morning, the dark blue and orange coalescent tones of dawn had faded.

Through the floor-to-ceiling bay windows, a windswept, clear blue sky coldly welcomed Gotham City's citizens, who were shut in their vehicles and wrapped up under several layers of winter clothes.

Eyes half closed, Bruce staggered toward his king-sized bed, and slipped under the warm covers, succumbing to numb darkness.

" _Master Wayne?"_

"Master Wayne?"

Alfred's voice made Bruce jump up. Breathless by the sudden peak of adrenaline, he cast a fuzzy look at his old friend, groaned his displeasure, and crashed back on the mattress.

"Master Wayne, I'm sorry to intrude, sir, but you do have a busy schedule today."

Another groan escaped his lips when he felt the covers being pulled away, while the steaming aroma of dark, caffeinated coffee invaded his nostrils, forcing his senses to wake up his body.

Reluctant to give up his sleep, Bruce dug his head into his pillow.

"Sir, don't force me to go and fetch smelling salts."

The threat made Bruce's heart miss a beat.

 _Crap_... he mentally swore; with Alfred, resistance was truly futile. "M'awake..." he muttered, rolling onto his back, and digging his palms in his eyes before running his hands through his hair with a long sigh.

"Good to hear," Alfred replied as he sat down with difficulty on the edge of his bed. "How was your night?"

With an absent-minded look, Bruce took the cup of coffee Alfred was holding. The question lost itself in the twists and turns of his exhausted brain.

 _My night?_ He wondered, perplexed. _Oh yeah..._

After talking to Gordon about the serial killer running wild around the famous but controversial exhibition, he had patrolled the Narrows, and assured himself that everything was quiet around Arkham Asylum. Then he had ventured into Uptown, not far from his penthouse actually, and made a visual recon on Falcone's son's hotel. After that, he had retreated for the rest of the night into his bunker to hack once more into the GCPD database, examine his own shots of the murder scene, and read the police reports until his sight started to blur.

Not that there was much anyway. The cause of death of each woman was clear enough: they had been frozen and then half dissected to look like the corpses donated to science that had ended up in the Bodies Exhibit. The toxicological analysis had not revealed much. No drug had been used to subdue the victims, who were also difficult to identify and seemed to have nothing in common.

The only obvious common point between them remained the exhibition.

He would have to look at the surveillance cameras to try to see if the killer had been stalking them inside the rooms, or just waited for them to walk out.

"Master Wayne? Are you all right?"

"Hmm? Yeah..." Bruce replied, noticing that he had just zoned out. "Sordid and draining," he muttered.

"Well, you'll be glad to know that you can take half a break tonight."

"Half a what?" Bruce frowned, focusing back his eyes on his old friend and meeting an alarmingly mischievous gleam on his face.

"A break, sir. A period of time people usually enjoy when they're not working."

Bruce sent him a desperate look. "I know what a break means, Alfred. I don't need one. But why half, though?"

"Oh! Because Miss Vicky Vale has accepted your invitation to the Four Seasons tonight at seven. That said, you could quite easily make it a full break."

Eyes wide, Bruce jumped to his feet, much to Alfred's amusement.

"What invitation, Alfred? I just accepted the idea of meeting her for this report on my playboy counterpart," he said, sitting back down.

"Right you did. And as a true _playboy_ with such a charming, young woman, you'll meet her at a fine and expensive restaurant."

The sky would have collapsed on him and Bruce would not have noticed. He was too shocked by the news Alfred had just ambushed him with.

"Don't make such a pitiful face, Master Wayne. I'm not sending you to the usual slaughterhouse you willingly send yourself to every night. And having some good time will be good for you. I'm sure you remember how to enjoy yourself. It's like riding a bicycle. You never forget."

"Not a slaughterhouse? With a journalist, Alfred? I don't see how I'll be able to have fun knowing that everything I say will be distorted and thrown to the dogs," Bruce said, mortified at the idea of having to talk so much about himself. Well, not himself really, and that was just the problem. How was he supposed to have a good evening knowing that he would have to put up his 'jerk mask'?

With a deep sigh, Bruce turned his head toward his pillow, silently sending it an SOS.

"No, no, no, Master Wayne, don't you dare lie back," Alfred said when Bruce started to sway toward sleep, attracted by a strong, magnetic force. "You're expected in less than forty minutes downtown for the presentation of the future Harvey Dent Memorial Hospital's model. Then you've got the monthly board meeting, followed by lunch with the Mayor and Commissioner Gordon to discuss the next police charity ball. Lucius wants to see you sometime during the afternoon so he can take an imprint of your body for the new Tumbler's pilot seat, and as soon as the employees have cleared the area, you've got about a hundred or so bags of concrete to smuggle into the cave beneath the manor."

 _Oh great..._ Bruce sighed. He had completely forgotten about almost everything on the list Alfred had just enumerated.

* * *

 

An hour later, behind the wheel of a white Lamborghini Aventador that blended in with the snow covered ground, Bruce stopped in front of a crowd barrier restricting the access to the vast open site where had once stood Gotham's General Hospital. Wrapped up in a warm, black duffle-coat, the policeman next to the barrier bent his head forward to check the driver's face before granting him free passage.

As he drove in, Bruce politely nodded to the cop, appreciating in a glance the tight security Gordon had put in place for the occasion. Wherever he looked he could see blue and black GCPD uniforms and hats. If he added to them the police officers dressed in plain clothes, and the ones he could not see, watching the area outside of the perimeter, Gordon had summoned a task force of at least a hundred men.

Well, nobody could blame him for being over-cautious about the safety of the mayor and the other personalities that would be present this morning. To say that last year's events had been traumatizing was nowhere near the truth, and the police were right to be worried about another psychopathic mind taking the opportunity to launch his career on the ashes of the Joker's one.

All senses on alert, Bruce slowly drove up the icy ground between two rows of parked cars, and stopped at the end, a few vehicles after Gordon's.

A hundred feet further, Mayor Garcia was talking with the future Director of the hospital behind the wide, blue sheet hiding the stage, and the cohort of journalists gathered for the occasion. By the sight of the dozens of vans and cars bearing colorful logos, half the country's reporters had been invited to the ceremony.

As Bruce stepped out of his car, and headed toward both men, a brief feeling of guilt rose inside him. Sure, he was notoriously known to be late, but usually the people waiting for him were drinking champagne and eating appetizers. Not fidgeting around in a desperate attempt to keep warm.

"I must say I'm surprised that you managed to arrive so late with such a powerful car, Mr. Wayne," a familiar voice said behind him and a bit on his right.

"I respected the speed limits, Commissioner," Bruce replied, casting a falsely undignified glance above his shoulder.

"Glad to hear. Would be a shame to crash this one," Gordon added, taking out his walkie-talkie and warning his men that the show was about to begin.

Bruce bit his lower lip to keep a smirk from appearing on his face. Although it was probably not Gordon's intention, the sarcastic remark had an unexpected soothing effect on his nerves. And when he climbed on the stage a few seconds later, it was with an energy he thought had abandoned him for the day.

However, after a few minutes of Garcia's talk under chilling gusts, Bruce's focus drifted from the speech to the crowd. With a sharp eye, he scanned the faces, searching for any expression out of place, any odd behavior, any people crouching on the ground...

"-sure you how much the new Wayne Foundation is a true blessing to our city. Please, gave a hand to our benefactor, Bruce Wayne," Garcia said, stretching his arm to invite Bruce to join him at the podium.

Hearing his name automatically called Bruce back to his senses. Summoning the speech Alfred had written for him, he approached with a seemingly relaxed smile on his face, adjusted the mike, and cleared his throat when a journalist suddenly cried,

"Hey, Bruce! How was last night's party? Too exhausting for you to get up in time?"

"Come on, Alex! You're such a jerk!" the young woman next to him exclaimed, sending daggers at the  _Gotham Sun_ 's reporter, while groans of annoyance sounded.

Used to being heckled by the tabloids, Bruce frowned, "Oh, did I forget to send you an invitation? Sorry for that, Mr... Mr... Anyway, give your name to my secretary, and I'll make sure you receive one for the next masquerade ball. Maybe you can come disguised as a real journalist," he replied with a smirk, casting a look at the young blonde woman who had reacted to the heckler. Shaking her head, she seemed mortified.

Under a general giggling, Bruce began his speech, a tiresome but well lubricated exercise at the end of which he joined the others, and removed the blue silken cloth that covered on a pedestal the model of the new Harvey Dent Memorial Hospital.

Immediately, the journalists ogled the white, grey and light green complex of four elegantly curved wings that a glass-walled dome joined together.

Then, before the final handshake, the three of them took a shovel, and together threw snow on the first white, marble stone, a symbolic gesture that launched the rebuilding. Like the phoenix's rebirth from his ashes, it was an act of renaissance and rebirth, although for Bruce, it helped him bury the final memories of Dent that he still had trouble dealing with.

And a few minutes later, it was with a certain relief that Bruce walked back to the solitude of his car.

"Mr. Wayne?" A sweet voice suddenly called him out.

Annoyed, Bruce turned his head and frowned as he saw the young woman that had reprimanded the paparazzi earlier walking fast toward him.

"Vicky Vale, from the  _Globe and Mail_ ," she said, energetically extending a hand.

"Miss Vale," he nodded, shaking her hand.

"I wanted to apologize for Knox's behavior. I've known him for long enough to know that he will never behave professionally, but I do hope you won't hold this against him," she said, staring at him with a certain anxiety.

"Well, he wouldn't do his job very well if he did what was in his best interest," Bruce replied, unhappy that Vale had come to Knox's undeserving defense. "You don't need to worry about retaliation, it's not my style," he added with a slight smile that she returned straight away with a sigh of relief.

"Glad to hear it. We'll discuss what your style _is_ tonight, then," she said, nodding her thanks before turning her heels.

"Please, Miss Vale. Where should I pick you up?" he asked.

The young woman chuckled and briefly looked down as if intimidated, before raising her head.

"I always come to professional dinners by my own means, Mr. Wayne," she replied with confidence.

"No problem..." Bruce replied, silently thanking his old friend for this trap.

Suddenly aware that he was staring at her with an absent-minded smile as she walked away, Bruce shook his head, and cast a glance at his watch.

With a curse, he dived into his car, wondering if being late was going to be his fate today.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

A biting wind swept the abandoned warehouses that stood behind the high fence; fence which was decorated with white panels announcing Wayne Enterprise's property, and forbidding trespass.

Sealed in his cold bunker under the docks, Bruce was staring at the ten-foot wide screen in front of him, waiting for the analysis of the facial recognition software to give its result.

_No match found_

Clenching his jaw, Bruce pushed his chair away from the desk, and stood up. Arms crossed on his chest, he walked around the island of computers in the middle of the vast area, and sent his Batpod a frustrated glance.

He felt annoyed, drained, worried, and angered without being able to distinguish which of these feelings prevailed.

The last victim of the serial killer had been identified earlier in the afternoon, thanks to a roommate who had reported the disappearance of her friend. He had hoped that having a real picture - not the facial reconstruction he had made on the previous women, for want of anything better - to run through the program would make it easier to spot her on the security footage from the Bodies Exhibit.

Unfortunately the crowd had been too dense to allow an accurate analysis.

Now Bruce's last chance to find a clue to the killer's identity before he struck again was to retrieve the tiny camera he had set above the scene of crime, and pray that a face amongst the mass of curious onlookers the yellow tape always attracted like moth to a flame would also appear in the exhibition record.

And that was what frustrated him right now. The night had already swallowed the city, but he could not get out just yet. As charming the young journalist was, the dinner grounded him at a bad moment.

Bruce sighed and shook his head, feeling a certain weariness falling on his shoulders. It was time to go back to the penthouse before Alfred would...

His cell phone vibrated.

_Call._

"I'm coming, Alfred," he grunted, as a blip attracted his attention on the main screen. Falcone's son's vehicle was leaving his hotel and heading downtown. "Oh! Really? Did she say why? Tomorrow, sure... Good night, Alfred."

Thrilled by the regained freedom, Bruce triggered the opening of the in-ground storage. His armor raised in front of his impatient eyes with a smooth, hydraulic sound.

Fifteen minutes and a quick meal later, Bruce adjusted the cowl on his face, and took the Batpod out.

He had a busy night ahead of him.

* * *

 

A thick snow was falling over Gotham City when Batman lied low behind the cornice on the roof above the dark alley where the fourth victim had been found.

Twenty feet below him on the narrow fire escape, a tiny silhouette was crouched, a flashlight in hand. The building was not inhabited. Who was this? A police officer?

A flash of anger lightened his eyes when he saw the person putting something in his pocket.

Without hesitation, he jumped from the roof, spreading his cape to control his fall.

"What you took doesn't belong to you," he growled, unrolling his imposing body at the person's feet. The person, whoever they were, looked ridiculously frail and small in his shadow.

A high-pitch scream echoed in the alley.

Perplexed, Batman deactivated his sonar to get a better look at the face, and sighed in annoyance upon recognizing his evening date. Was this the reason why she had cancelled their dinner? Because she had had a tip concerning the scene of crime? Although that would not explain how she had known where to look for the camera.

"I... I don't know what you are talking about," Vicky Vale replied, moving back one step.

Roughly, Batman extended an arm, and retrieved his miniature camera.

"Don't you dare!" Vale yelled, outraged, putting up a useless struggle.

"How did you know it was there?" he said, sliding the device into one of his utility belt pockets.

"If I tell you, will you give me an interview in exchange?"

"No."

"Who's the killer?"

"You're calling him Freeze."

"I don't mean this killer. Who killed the cops last year?" she asked, looking at him as if he were dumb.

The question took Batman short, and he half-sighed half-growled, realizing that she was making him talk.

"I have nothing to say," he grunted, walking away.

"Wait! Please!" she exclaimed.

Batman turned his head back to her when a flash suddenly blinded him.

"You'll be sharper on this one," she said with a smile as a siren reverberated, while rays of blue and red colored the snow.

"Batman! Freeze or we'll shoot!"

 _No kidding_... Batman mentally grunted, taking out his grappling gun, and aiming for the flat roof fifty feet overhead.

As he flew away, he could hear the bullets hissing around him. One brushed his temple, and burst the brick cornice. Shards grazed his face.

Despite Gordon's orders to take him alive, most of the police officers still saw him as a cop killer, and his old ally had advised him not to take for granted that all his men would obey his orders. To make things worse, the Mayor was pressuring Gordon for results, and ordered him to double the night patrols. They wanted the Bat's skin, and fast.

Batman quickly rolled on the roof to get out of the line of fire, and raised his eyes toward the clouded sky.

Despite the pounding of his heart, he could hear in the distance the rumble of rotor blades, though a strange echo kept him from spotting the helicopter as fast as he usually did. The sound of rapid steps climbing the metallic fire escape reverberated, while a concert of sirens broke the silence of the night as more police cars converged on the building.

Bruce raised an anxious glance at the sky, silently praying for the elements to send a storm his way and ground the choppers.

He was waiting for two patrols to pass by the dark alley where his Batpod was hidden when he realized that there were two distinctive rotors. His eyes widened as he saw one coming from the north, hovering above the area where his powerful bike was, while the other, coming from the South of the city, was swooping down on his position like a hawk.

A peak of adrenalin flooded his blood. He was being circled from all directions.

 _First things first_ , he reminded himself, as his mind raced to find a sidetrack. In a few seconds, the cops were going to reach the roof.

In the distance, he could see the chaotic entanglement of buildings of the Narrows. Usually, the cops gave up the pursuit as soon as he set foot in the maze of small, gloomy, impenetrable alleys. It was his best chance to escape.

Though this time, a major problem stood in the way. Gotham River.

He was mentally marking all the roofs he had to jump on to reach the branch of glistening icy waters at their narrowest point, when orders to surrender echoed behind him. Annoyed, he cast a quick look at the two breathless police officers who were aiming their guns at him.

 _Now or never_ , he told himself, running up the roof, and thrusting into space while shots fired, slicing through the air around him.

He landed heavily on the fifth and next to last roof when a chopper appeared suddenly in front of him, forcing him to veer off course at the last second toward the sloping roof of the building on his right, dreadfully aware that it was lower and slightly further inland than the one he had chosen to jump over the river.

Upon landing his boots skidded on the thin layer of snow covering the metallic tiles, and he rolled toward the edge.

At the last second, he managed to regain his balance. Pushing hard on the gutter, he threw himself into space.

 _Maybe with the wind,_  he shuddered, hoping that the elements, favorable for once, would carry him on the additional distance.

As he spread his arms, his cape solidified, and an immediate vertical push made him gain a few critical feet in altitude. Contracting his muscles, he forced his body to stay even more solid than usual so he would offer the least resistance possible to air.

But above the middle of the river, a strong, sideways gust struck him without warning, violently pushing him off course as if he were a common seagull.

Jaw clenched to the point of breaking his teeth, Batman struggled to regain control of his flight. But his speed had suffered, and he was no seagull. In his mind a stall alarm blared a second before he felt his body falling like a stone.

Under any other weather, he would have just dived like a white-tailed eagle, and swam the fifty feet left to the banks under water. Right now, he prayed that the ice would be thick enough to support his build.

Heart pounding furiously in his chest, he prepared himself to roll on impact, and spread his weight as much as possible.

But as low as the temperatures had been the last ten days, it had not been cold enough for the ice to resist such a collision.

As soon as his feet touched ground, a dry crack sounded, and Batman immediately disappeared into an icy dark hole.

Batman surfaced a few seconds later, taking some relief in the fact that the shock of temperatures had not taken his breath away, nor instantly frozen his muscles like it had done the time when, training with Ra's Al Ghul, he had dived into the same predicament.

His armor was protecting him, but for how long? In such cold waters, death was inevitable after five minutes, and he was afraid that his shivers were already more cold than fear-induced.

Batman tried to haul himself on the ice, but the edges were too fragile, and broke further at each of his attempts.

In the distance, shouts sounded, although he could not tell if the police officers were calling for reinforcements, or foolishly ordering him not to move.

Aware that the whole area was going to be lit up by the powerful search lights of the choppers in a matter of seconds, Batman began to dig himself a canal toward the banks, trying not yield to a rising, visceral panic. Nobody would come to his aid fast enough. It was his only chance to survive, period.

As he progressed slowly, the freezing waters began to seep between the plates in his armor, and Gotham River transformed into a sea of flames, burning him to the bones when thousands of white-hot needles pierced his skin.

It took all his physical and mental strength to make it to the banks. And when he reached the narrow band of pebbles covered by detritus of all kinds, he was shaking uncontrollably, and breathing erratically. All in all, his ordeal had lasted less than two minutes, but the damage was done. In this rough weather, the water trapped below his armor was going to transform into ice quickly.

He had to find a shelter, and quick, to remove his armor, and dry himself before his body's temperature would fall too low.

Batman staggered toward the concrete guardrail ten feet away, and climbed over. Upon hitting the asphalted road, his knees yielded under the shooting pain caused by cramps in his legs, and he crashed on the ground.

A sudden light dispelled the shadows around him.

One of the choppers had found him, and was hovering low above his position in an attempt to corner him until the arrival of the cavalry.

 _Get up!_ he berated himself, feeling the rotor's turbulence lifting a vengeful cloud of frozen shards that lashed his face.

With a groan, he pushed on his hands, and half bent, he ran toward a narrow corridor between two crumbling buildings a few feet away.

A shock on his left shoulder plate suddenly threw him to the ground.

Ignoring the pain, Batman stood up, and hands shaking, he retrieved a small mine of black powder in his belt that he threw behind him.

The small charge exploded upon impact on the ground, creating an impenetrable cloud that would slow down his pursuer, probably the chopper's copilot.

But as a fit of coughing sounded, Batman realized that the man was close behind him. Aware than in his state, he would not be able to outrun the police officer, he took out his grappling gun, and aimed at a ramshackle metallic structure overhead, a relic of a fire escape that had once allowed the top floor inhabitants to evacuate. He had to disappear from the street.

The chopper's light brushed his back as he broke down the door, and penetrated into a circular hallway with a large, opened stairwell at its center. The quaint candelabrums suspended from the ceiling cast a gloomy light on the dirty beige walls and a series of dark burgundy doors.

A door bouncing open echoed in the well. Cautious, Batman cast a quick glance above the frail, wrought iron guardrail, ten floors down, and saw two armed silhouettes climbing the stairs.

The sound of shattered glass echoed, and a rain of shimmering shrapnel flew from the ceiling as five ropes appeared, each carrying a SWAT unit officer.

Batman cursed. The cops were persistent tonight.

Without hesitation, he burst the apartment door on his left just as the space around him was riddled with bullets.

 _What the hell?_ he wondered, stunned by the lethal force used against him in an area where civilians lived.

Though after a few steps into the dark, dusty, empty rooms, he realized the reason of their spite. Frozen to the bones by the layer of ice on his underclothes, he had not noticed that the place was cold. Nobody lived here anymore.

Alarmed to feel so weak and confused, he headed toward the closest window, took out his grappling gun, and aimed for the adjacent building's roof. He preferred to deal with the chopper than with the horde of special units at his heels.

As soon as the grappling irons locked, he threw himself out.

His body bounced against the facing brick wall while the force of traction hauled him up toward the roof. But the shooting pain in his left shoulder added to his frozen, paralyzed fingers caused him to let go of the gun.

With dread, he forced his cape to spread open to slow down his fall. But the muscles of his left arm did not seem willing to comply anymore.

All air blew out of his lungs upon impact while a terrible shock wave shook his body, threatening to shatter his bones as if they were made of crystal.

His strong survival instinct pushed him to make it to his feet, but unable to draw oxygen, he staggered on a dozen of feet before collapsing on the ground, all his muscles turning as hard as stone in an atrocious pain.

 _Was this the end?_ he wondered as a light blinded him.

Well, he could not say he was surprised. He knew this would happen the day he had chosen to be a vigilante. And like expected, it was not very pleasant.

As a quiet, heavy torpor cast a dark veil on the edge of his vision, he saw a blurry silhouette bending over him in the middle of thick, dancing white spots.

Not feeling the delicate snowflakes falling on his face, Bruce could not bring himself to care.


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

"Fuck!" Gordon cried as Montoya slammed on the brakes.

The van skidded on the snow and stopped an inch from the Dark Knight's body.

Heart beating wildly in his chest, Gordon jumped out of the cabin, and immediately dragged the vigilante toward the rear of the van while shouts echoed between the buildings.

"I'm gonna take them as far away as possible, sir!" Montoya said, drawing her weapon.

Gordon exchanged a tense glance with his lieutenant, and nodded his thanks, relieved that he had been right about her. Not only did she not believe the crap about Batman being a cop killer, but she trusted him enough not to ask questions right now.

He had just hauled the massive body into the rear when he heard the snow crunching under the impact of several pair of boots. As silently as possible, he closed the doors, locked them, and lay down over the unconscious body as a beam of light briefly dispelled the shadows inside the van.

Holding his breath in the darkness, he heard Montoya's voice telling the other cops that she had seen the Batman crossing the street, and climbing the next building's fire escape.

The SWAT unit officer yelled to the chopper's pilot to take off, and ordered his men to spread in the surroundings alleys.

And suddenly, the street went silent again.

In a rapid gesture, Gordon pulled close the opaque curtain that hid the cabin from the rear, and switched on the overhead light to see what was wrong with the vigilante.

Lying still on his back, his face was pale, and his lips, blue, formed one thin line.

Gordon shuddered. The Dark Knight dreadfully looked like the bodies Gordon had seen more than his share of on a table in the city's main mortuary.

Eyes wide and jaw clenched, Gordon put two fingers on Batman's neck, searching for a pulse that would tell him that he was wrong.

But as the seconds passed by without detecting the slightest beat, his heart rate increased, and blood began to pound painfully in his temples.

 _That could not be. That just could not_ _be!_

Swallowing with difficulty, Gordon bent over Batman's face to feel if he was breathing. Sometimes, a fleeting pulse was hard to detect, but that did not mean that the person was dead. Not yet.

After a few seconds, Gordon closed his eyes, and released his own breath.

It was there. Shallow, but there.

Again, he put two fingers on his neck, and after some time, he felt a weak beat. A single one, but it took only one to tell him that the Batman was not yet ready to bury.

"Come on, don't you dare die on me, my friend," Gordon whispered, noticing how cold Batman's skin was.

He was looking at his armor for any sign of a shot wound when his gaze focused back on the vigilante's face. The junctions between the skin and the Kevlar were shimmering.

 _Ice?_ he wondered, trying to slip the tip of his finger below the cowl to feel the texture. Pearls of water immediately dripped on Batman's face, running down his cheek like tears.

Only one explanation rose to Gordon's mind to explain how water could have seeped below the cowl. The vigilante must have fallen into the river.

Hypothermia. He was suffering from hypothermia.

He had to take him out of his armor, and fast. But not too fast.

With dread, Gordon realized that he should not have moved the Batman at all, aware that it would have caused the cold blood in his extremities to move toward his heart, and stop it.

In the urgency to remove him from open ground, he had rather roughly handed him. He might have finished him...

The thought raised a wave of panic that terrified Gordon. The armor was what was killing him right now.

Without losing more time, he tried to remove Batman's gauntlet. He was unsuccessful.

Gordon cursed and took another deep breath to control his nerves. There must be an order to remove the plates. Maybe if the cowl was the last thing he put on, it would be the first he removed.

Remembering that the edges were electrified,he quickly retrieved the toolbox under the front seat, opened it, and removed a pair of thick gloves.

After having put them on top of the thin leather gloves he already wore, Gordon groped for a switch, hoping that it would be enough to keep him from being fried like the Joker's henchman during the attempt to kill Dent while he was transferred to the County prison.

Gordon found a little mechanism on either side of the neck. He pushed on each, and felt the cowl slightly separating from the collar plate.

Holding his breath, he slid a hand under Batman's neck to support his head, and removed the cowl.

After three years of fighting crime at the vigilante's side, Gordon had made his own line-up of suspects.

Newly-retired soldiers from the special ops working freelance, police officers, or F.B.I. agents with military pasts. A bunch of friends from a kung-fu club, black-belt lawyers in Jiu-Jitsiu or Tae-Kwondo taking justice in their own hands. At one point, Gordon had even suspected that there were several Batmen, though only one showed himself at a time.

Not once had the livid, disheveled face that appeared in front of his stunned eyes ever been in the picture.

 _The Prince of Gotham?_ _This arrogant son of a bitch?_

Feeling as if a bullet had stricken him right in the heart, Gordon briefly sat down and raised a hand to his mouth as another image prevailed in his mind, sweeping all the others fed by the tabloids aside with the back of a hand.

The image of the ten-year-old kid sitting straight in Captain Loeb's office, his terrified gaze clinging on every eye he met like he was searching for a safe buoy. A safe buoy that would tell him that this was only a nightmare, that he was going to wake up in his bed, his mom and dad just deeply asleep in the next bedroom.

That had not happened.

When the Waynes' butler had come to fetch him, the kid had fallen on his knees, realizing that his life had forever darkened.

The sight of the man kneeling on the ground, holding tight the crying child in his arm, hardly able to keep his own emotions from flooding out, had been unbearable.

How many times had he thought back then that the real crime had been to let the kid live?

It had certainly been one of the most dreadful moments he had had to live through in his career.

"Don't you dare die on me, my friend," Gordon whispered again to the young man, shaking away his gloomy thoughts. He had to keep his mind clear, and give Wayne the emergency care he needed.

Hypothermia was a tricky condition to treat. Removing the victim from the cold environment was the first step, and had been done. Though the cabin was not really warm.

Quickly, Gordon retrieved the small portable heater Montoya had bought recently. In a few minutes, it would be about eighty-five degrees in the van.

Jaw still tightly clenched, Gordon finished removing the rest of the armor, considering his options.

Damn, he was no doctor. He had no way to easily detect if Wayne's heart went into fibrillation, and no way to tell exactly how low his body temperature was, either. The first aid kit was in no way sufficient to handle such an emergency. Wayne needed to go to the hospital.

While he finished removing the armor, Gordon's mind worked on creating a plausible explanation.

The Prince of Gotham running out of petrol on a secondary, deserted road; not dressed for a night walk under such weather, falling into an icy river while attempting to find a service station.

But why amongst all the cars had Gordon been the only one to stop and pick him up?

He had almost run Wayne over. That would certainly explain the contusions he had suffered tonight while escaping the SWAT.

It could work, Gordon thought as he cut through the frozen underclothes that were encasing Wayne's body in a lethal cocoon.

Quickly, he put them aside, grabbed the spare duffle-coat hanging on the back of the seat, and removed his own. As he wrapped the coats around the still body, the sight of the numerous, dark bruises on the vigilante's pale skin made Gordon grind his teeth.

Gordon was unfolding the survival blanket when he suddenly frowned.

Why were his right-hand fingers tainted red?

_Fuck!_

How could he have missed a gunshot wound?

Alarmed, Gordon removed the coats from the vigilante's body. There were streaks of blood that looked like fingerprints on Wayne's left clavicle. Gordon's fingerprints.

 _Damn it!_ Wayne was wounded on his back.

Feeling the full stress of a first line paramedic on a gunfire scene, Gordon took out a couple of gauzes in the first aid kit, and as delicately as possible, he rolled Wayne on his side to locate the wound.

A small dark hole was oozing dark red blood on Wayne's left shoulder.

Cursing, Gordon put the gauze on it and sighed. A gunshot wound.

This certainly complicated the situation, blowing the simple scenario he had hoped to give to the hospital. Though it made more urgent the need to get Wayne medical help.

 _First things first_ , he called himself back to order. The hypothermia was still the primary threat to Wayne's life.

As delicately as possible, Gordon rolled the vigilante flat on his back, hoping that his own weight would put the needed pressure on the wound.

After wrapping the survival blanket around the frozen body, Gordon took out his cell phone.

In all probability the old butler who had been Wayne's only family since that terrible day was aware of his master's nightly activities. And based on the looks of his bruised body, it was not the first time Wayne needed medical attention. It was possible that his butler had access to discreet resources.

Because of the recent need to join him for the Police Charity Ball, the young billionaire had given him his penthouse phone number.

Or was it just a pretext on which the Batman had jumped?

While the communication was established, Gordon checked again Wayne's pulse. But he barely caught three beats before someone picked up the receiver ten seconds later.

"Jim Gordon speaking, sorry to disturb you this late, but I stumbled upon your young master on the road. He's in a sorry state, and the paparazzi would be quite happy to get a _shot_ at him if I had to bring him to the  _emergency_ room right now. Do you prefer to take care of him on your own?" he asked, hoping that the butler would read between the lines.

The answer streamed.

"Not a problem, I'll be there in ten minutes," Gordon replied upon hearing that the old man was going to open the restricted parking lot to Wayne's penthouse.

"Hold on, my friend," he whispered, patting the unconscious man before moving to the front cabin.

Snow crushing under the van's wheels, Gordon drove away toward Uptown Gotham.

As he drove on the deserted streets, and merged on the main highway crossing the city from South to North, memories surfaced, showing him the signs he had ignored one after the other.

Now, they seemed so clear.

Wayne, his eyes groggy, sitting on the ground against his crashed Lamborghini. Said crash had saved the man who wanted to reveal the Batman's identity, and had spared him a painful moment in the same breath.

Gordon's fist crashed on the wheel when he remembered his bitter comment this morning to the egoistic playboy that had made everyone freeze because he could not wake up in time, as had stated the  _Gotham Sun_ 's journalist.

The man played his role so well. Everybody loved and hated him at the same time, excusing the billionaire jerk because of his past, and expecting nothing more from him than what he was giving. His money to noble causes.

Rich... Yeah, the Batman was rich. As Dent had commented long ago about the radioactive bills used to track the Mob. A  _fancy_  method for a city police department operating on a tight budget.

And Dent. The vigilante popping out of nowhere to save him and Rachel Dawes during Wayne's fundraising for the District Attorney. Wayne again.

_Rachel Dawes..._

It had been an open secret to the whole city that the assistant DA had been raised at the Wayne's manor until that dreadful night when his parents had been murdered.

The Dark Knight's fury upon learning from the Joker's mouth that she had also been kidnapped; how he had stormed out of the interrogation room, thinking he was rushing to  _her_ aid.

The firemen on site had reported seeing his silhouette still on top of a nearby building, staring till dawn at the raging fire that had burnt down the warehouse.

Her death must have demolished him... no wonder he had been so aggressive the last month, the first anniversary of her murder.

Sweat pearling on his forehead, Gordon adjusted his central mirror to try to get a look at the fallen knight. The warmness in the van was now suffocating, contrasting with the storm that was blowing snow on the windshield.

While he increased the wipers' speed, and put the fans on maximum to evacuate the condensation on the windows, his mind yanked him back once more into the past.

There were some events in life where one can remember exactly what he was doing, saying, or watching at the moment one learned some special news.

The day Bruce Wayne came back, Gordon was in the justice court, pleading without success to the DA to give him warrants for searching one of Falcone's warehouses on the docks. The same warehouse where the mafioso would be found chained to a projector a month later. Maybe if the DA had agreed, they would have discovered the Scarecrow's flower-derived toxin before it was too late. Almost too late, thanks to the Batman. Thanks to Gotham's prodigal son.

The livid, shell-shocked kid appeared again in front of his eyes, and Gordon began to grasp what fueled the Dark Knight.

By the time Gordon drove into the restricted parking lot as instructed, the van was a sauna.

In the vast, dimly lit area, he headed toward half a dozen of luxurious vehicles parked at the far end, catching sight of the white Lamborghini he had seen just that morning.

Next to it, between a bike and a black Rolls-Royce, the silhouette of Alfred Pennyworth was waiting for him with a voluminous first aid kit at his feet.

Gordon stopped the van next to Pennyworth and climbed out, ignoring the shudders that seized him in the cool basement.

"I'm sorry for the secrecy, but I didn't want to be overheard," Gordon said, not wasting time on civilities as he moved to the van's back doors.

"What happened to him?" Pennyworth asked, climbing into the rear cabin to kneel at the vigilante's side.

"He fell in the river while he was escaping a SWAT unit," Gordon replied, joining him as the old man put two fingers on Wayne's neck to feel his pulse, "And he took a bullet in the left shoulder."

Though weak, his breathing was now audible, and he was shivering. A sign that his body temperature had already risen.

"Master Bruce?" Pennyworth asked, slapping his cheeks. "Try to open your eyes if you hear me."

Wayne's eyelids fluttered very briefly. Encouraged, Pennyworth repeated his injunction, but he got no more reaction.

Tense, the old man took out a penlight from the first aid kit, and spread Bruce's eyelids open.

Wayne moaned at the aggression, and craned his neck to withdraw from it.

Stunned by the sudden struggle, Gordon moved to hold him tight to allow the butler to do his examination.

"Calm down, Master Bruce," Pennyworth said, patting the young man on the face, while he lifted the blanket and coats in order to take his temperature in the crook of his arm, "You are safe now."

 _A fighter he is..._ Gordon thought, watching then with curiosity at Wayne noticeably relaxing.

The man was no ordinary butler.

As he observed Pennyworth silently taking care of his young master, Gordon noticed that the man's hands were not shaking under emotions, unlike his own. Far from panicking, he was methodic, and despite his old age, he seemed as solid as a rock.

Who  _exactly_ was Batman's butler?

"Eighty-nine point seven," Pennyworth announced a minute later, digging the edge of the blankets below Wayne's body, and interrupting the course of his thoughts.

 _Still dangerously low,_  Gordon sighed as the butler bent over Wayne's body, and lifted it delicately to cast a look at the wound. It was not bleeding much anymore. The bullet was either buried inside and acting like a stopper, or it had merely scratched the skin thanks to the Kevlar armor.

He was searching for the shoulder plate amongst the pieces of armor when Pennyworth said, "Please, Commissioner Gordon. Would you lend me a hand and help me bring him upstairs? He's heavier than a bull when he's unconscious..."

"I know what you mean," he replied, putting aside one plate for further examination before moving toward Wayne's feet.

* * *

 

Two hours later, Gordon was driving the van back toward the MCU building in Downtown Gotham, feeling drained and overburdened by the night's events.

Though he was relieved that the Dark Knight was in good caring hands, the knowledge of his real identity, and the realization that the man had no safe harbor in his life – businessman during the day, arrogant playboy by evening, criminals' foe at night – had fallen like a bludgeon on his shoulders.

But the hardened cop he was could take this blow. What really troubled him was the armor-piercing bullet half-buried in the shoulder plate he had found when he had come back to put the armor in a wide sports bag.

That bullet was certainly not the SWAT units' standard ammunition, and it was a bloody miracle that the armor had stopped it. Probably the gusty wind had affected the usual shooting range.

Gordon sighed. He had been careful to only place men who thought that the vigilante was a scapegoat at the heads of units, and now he doubted the commanding officer. Why had the man ordered the use of such a lethal force against the Batman?

At least he had been right about Montoya. He owed her a big favor after tonight. If she had not come to fetch him in order to check a detail on the previous night's sordid crime scene, they would not have stumbled upon the Dark Knight hunting party.

Thanks to coincidences, the guardian of Gotham would live another day.

For the second day in a row, Gordon finished his work well after a reasonable hour, and tonight, he would find the house silent, and cold. Standing his wife up at the restaurant was one hell of a way to cool down relationships.

With his record, tonight's blow could very well sink his marriage.


	5. Chapter 5

 

_Don't be afraid, Bruce..._

_Master Wayne? Wake up, sir!_

Why was Alfred bothering him when he was trying to talk to his father?

He was dead. He would not open his eyes. All that was left was the echo of his father's last words in the gloomy alley. Those words would die too.

_Don't be afraid..._

Bruce felt Alfred's hand clenching on his shoulder, trying to drag him away from his parents lying in a pool of blood. But as always, he was not able to avert his eyes from his father's corpse.

_Master Wayne? Open your eyes, now._

Bruce was raising his head toward his old friend to tell him it was useless to call him when a shot echoed. Pain suddenly seared in his shoulder as Alfred's hand clenched tighter on it. The next moment, he was being dragged to the ground by the old man, and crushed under his body.

_Don't be afraid, Bruce..._

_What is this crap? On the contrary, be afraid!_

Not bothering to struggle under Alfred's dead weight, Bruce craned his neck to see who had just spoken. With dread, he saw the Joker coming out of the shadows, a smoking gun in his hand.

 _It's okay..._ Gordon said, placing himself between the Joker and Bruce.

 _It's not- OKAY!_  The Joker barked, shooting the commissioner on the last word.

_Master Wayne, wake up, now!_

Terrified to hear the sound of Gordon's body collapsing on the ground, Bruce closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

This was _just_ a nightmare, and he knew how to handle them. He had to close his eyes, and let the storm rage itself out, let his unconscious mind swallow it, bury it, like he had buried all his other painful memories.

Above all, he did not want to wake up. He must _not_ wake up right now, despite what Alfred enjoined him to do in his death rattle.

 _WAKE UP!_  The Joker's voice shouted in his ear, blowing his foul breath on Bruce's face. The smell invaded his nostrils and his mouth, and bile burnt his throat.

With all his strength, Bruce pushed the Joker's face away.

"Bloody hell! Please, Master Wayne!"

Bruce's eyes sprang open. His heart was knocking hard in his chest, and he was breathing erratically.

Slowly, Alfred's face came into focus in the middle of a blurry, whitish haze.

After blinking several times, Bruce frowned.

His old friend was sweeping blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

Feeling Alfred's other hand pressing his arm against his chest, Bruce lowered his gaze, and saw that his fist was clenched.

Damn it... had he punched Alfred?

"Ss-sorry..." he whispered, mortified.

"Not to worry, sir," Alfred replied, releasing his arm, before bending over him to retrieve a small vial on the bedcovers. "I should have seen it coming," he added, putting the vial into his waistcoat pocket.

_Smelling salts..._

Bruce took a deep breath and exhaled very slowly, forcing his fist to relax at the same time. He must have become so agitated during his nightmare that Alfred had decided to wake him up.

A searing pain, as if a white-hot needle had just pierced his brain through and through, made him close his eyes tight.

Damn... his head felt as if he had been standing an inch away from the most powerful sound system ever used during a heavy metal concert for too long. And he could not calm down his racing heart.

The last time he had felt so bad was when he'd been stricken with a severe case of the flu when he was seventeen. He ached everywhere, and he felt so cold...

"Drink this, Master Wayne. You're going to need it."

Bruce slowly opened his eyes, perplexed.

The strain in Alfred's voice as he pronounced the last words told him nothing good. Something was wrong, or else his old friend would have let him go back to sleep.

Sitting in the edge of the mattress, Alfred looked at Bruce with sick, worried eyes. But it was his clenched jaw that made Bruce shudder.

He had some bad news to tell him.

Aware that his old friend would tell him only after he had drunk whatever _kill or cure_ treatment was dissolved in the glass of water, Bruce slowly rolled on his side, and straightened up.

The movement immediately caused a shooting pain to explode in his left shoulder, creating an electrocuting wave that spread to his back and along his left arm, to the tip of his fingers.

Stars began to dance in front of Bruce's eyes, while cold sweat pearled on his forehead.

"Careful," Alfred said gently, putting back the glass on the night table to catch him.

Bruce felt Alfred adjusting the pillows behind his back to offer him support when the door of his bedroom opened.

"Is His Majesty finally awake?" someone suddenly barked. "I don't have all day!"

Bruce saw Alfred's piercing blue eyes turn deadly as a man, dressed in a formal, black suit appeared in his line of vision, two police officers hot on his heels.

"Mr. Bruce Wayne?" the man in black said, a condescending expression on his face.

Disoriented, Bruce nodded.

"You are under arrest."

_What?_

Eyes widening under the shock, Bruce automatically tried to get up, but Alfred quickly placed his hand on his chest to keep him from moving.

Deeply troubled, Bruce exchanged with him an alarmed glance.

"Agent Johnson here is working at the Financial Crimes Squad," his old friend told him as quick steps echoed in the marble corridor.

With a wince, Bruce craned his rigid neck toward the newcomer, and saw Gordon, slightly breathless, stepping toward Johnson.

"The judge has agreed for home detention," the Commissioner announced calmly, giving the Federal an envelope, before moving toward him, adding with a slight smirk, "Quite a hangover you've got here, Mr. Wayne. I'm sorry to ask you for such an effort, but could you sit down on the edge of the bed so I can attach your ankle monitor, please?"

_What hangover? What kind of game was Gordon playing exactly? Why was he under arrest, damn it?_

Bruce felt Alfred's hand clenching around his arm, and pulling him up. Too shocked by the news, he let his old friend hold him to keep him from swaying.

Kneeling at his feet, the Commissioner attached the device to Bruce's leg below his quilted jogging pants.

Bruce frowned. Why did he have two pair of socks?

 _Damn..._ he was not thinking straight. His socks were the last of his concerns right now.

A wave of nausea suddenly rose, and forced him to focus on controlling his stomach. Though throwing up would lend weight to the claim that he had gotten sloshed last night, he still had his pride.

"Can I know what I'm accused of exactly?" he asked after a moment, alarmed that his voice sounded so weak.

This had to be an error, something that would clarify itself easily.

"Money laundering via your foundation, Mr. Wayne," Gordon replied, raising his head toward him.

At the news, Bruce felt all his muscles clenching at once, as if he had been electrocuted. Before he could realize what he was doing, he was on his feet, sending daggers at Gordon and the Federal agent.

What kind of ridiculous hoax was this? Was Gordon aware who he was accusing of being a Mafioso?

Only Alfred's hand on his arm kept him from letting his ire burst.

Far from looking being intimidated, the Commissioner slowly straightened. "You'd better lie back down, Mr. Wayne. You don't look so good, and the hospitals are literally at exploding capacity this time of year. I'm pretty sure you don't want to go there."

Bruce frowned, staring at Gordon's eyes. The man seemed suddenly as worried sick as Alfred. Why? Where was the usual condescending expression?

"Master Bruce, please," this latter softly added, pressing him to comply.

Bruce shuddered. Despite their strong affective bond, his old friend never called him Bruce in public, always careful to display a perfect etiquette.

However, it was his shaky legs that finished convincing him to stand down. The sudden pulse of adrenalin was not enough anymore to keep him on his feet, and he would not add fainting to his miserable display.

With a grunt, he slowly sat on the edge of the mattress, and buried his head into his hands.

How this could be happening to him?

Sure, he could not be behind every single decision taken by the Foundation, but he only invested in ethical funds, and as much as possible, had made certain that all the necessary safeguards were in place to check to whom the grants went.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw Agent Johnson moving toward him.

The man bent to check that the electronic monitor was solidly attached, voiced his satisfaction, and stood up.

"Looks like you can finally sober-up in your comfy bed, Mr. Wayne. From now on, you are not allowed out of your penthouse for the duration of the investigation, save for interrogation with Judge Nathanael Harris. His office will contact your lawyers to arrange a date and time for a first meeting this week."

Sending a cold glance to the Commissioner, the Federal agent walked out of the room at a brisk pace, followed by the two young cops upon Gordon's nod.

Bruce exhaled slowly. Exhausted, he let himself sway toward his pillow, but Alfred caught his arm.

"Drink this before you go back to sleep, Master Bruce," he said, giving him the glass of water.

Eyes half-closed, Bruce nodded. But at the first sip, he almost choked, and Alfred had to raise a hand to keep the glass from falling.

Damn! How many tablets had he dissolved in this?

Knowing better than to balk, Bruce managed to drink half the bitter medicine before feeling his stomach revolting. Shaking his head, he pushed the glass back into Alfred's hand, and burrowed back under his bedcovers.

Why was he freezing so much?

Oh yeah... Flu did that. In a few moments, he would be burning in hell, and have only one wish: to be freezing again.

His day had barely begun and it sucked already.

Alfred's warm hand touched his cheek, then moved to his forehead.

"Open your mouth, sir."

Bruce half opened his eyes, and saw a thermometer approaching his face.

 _Could all this only be a fever-driven hallucination?_ he wondered, drowsy.

It had to be.

"Ninety-six point seven," Alfred announced after some time.

Startled, Bruce frowned. "No fever?"

"No indeed, Master Bruce, no fever. How do you feel, sir?"

Bruce would have sighed if he had the strength. That was one hell of a question.

"You tell me how I should feel..."

"Cold, obviously disoriented, sluggish, in pain-"

"Furious and deep in the mud," he groaned, after checking with his left foot that indeed, he had something attached to his right ankle.

"That too..."

"Not as much as you think, Mr. Wayne."

Once more startled, Bruce turned quickly his head to his right, and clenched his jaw at the pain the sudden movement caused.

What was Gordon  _still_ doing in his bedroom?

"The monitor I put around your ankle is faulty," the commissioner said, pointing with his finger at Bruce's leg under the covers. Then, Gordon put his hand in his duffle-coat's inner pocket, and took out a similar device. "As long as this one stays here, everybody will think that you're resting cozy in your penthouse," he added with a satisfy smirk as he put it on the night table.

Far from being relieved, Bruce's heart missed a beat. Several in fact.

Why the hell was Gordon helping him beat the game?

Certain that he was not going to like the answer, he sent an alarmed glance to Alfred. Now he could add distraught and panicked to the list of emotions that described his morning state of mind.

"Do you remember what happened last night, Master Bruce?" his old friend asked, pushing him back on the mattress.

Despite his headache, Bruce closed his eyes tight, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Like a burglar forcing a strong box, he tried to coerce his mind to open.

Well... a pitiful, amateur burglar.

"The last thing I remember is leaving the manor," he replied after a moment, aware that what had caused him to skip the last part of his day could not be very pleasant.

"I found you on the ground in the Narrows, a SWAT unit hot on your heels. Montoya attracted them away from you and gave me the time I needed to get you to safety-"

"What?" Bruce exclaimed, ignoring the pain as he suddenly straightened up again.

Once more, Alfred's hand forced him to lie back.

"You were in severe hypothermia," Alfred added, adjusting the covers back on him. "Commissioner Gordon did not have much of a choice."

Bruce took a deep breath, measuring the extent of the revelation. Gordon had removed his armor. He knew Bruce Wayne was the Batman.

"You gave me quite a scare," the Commissioner said, slightly shaking his head and sighing at the same time, quite the same way Alfred and Lucius use to do after each of his narrow escapes.

 _Welcome to the club,_ Bruce thought as blurry, muddled bits of last night's events began to flash in his mind.

Yeah... now he remembered.

The police, Vale, his fall into the river. No flu at least, though now he wished it was.

"Before I go back downtown to see what else I can do about this accusation, there's something else we've got to talk about," Gordon added, shifting back to business. "A sniper shot you in the back at some point yesterday evening. Do you remember where you stood then?"

Bruce opened his eyes again. A bullet? Were there other things his unconscious was hiding from him today?

His shoulder... No wonder it hurt like hell.

"There was a patrol chopper less than fifty feet behind me," he sighed, feeling now completely exhausted.

"Too close. If the sniper had been in there, this bullet would have pierced your armor through and through," Gordon replied, taking out a small plastic bag from his pocket, and giving it to Alfred, who after casting a brief, serious look at it, gave it to him. "The man was at least two hundred yards from your position."

Bruce shuddered at the sight of the crushed piece of shrapnel, and tried to bend his neck to examine his shoulder blade. It hurt, and Alfred would probably insist that he put his arm in a sling for a couple of days, but it did not look like the bone had been broken.

His gaze fell back on the bullet.

Damn... an inch to the right, and armor or not, he could have ended up as a quadriplegic.

This had been a hell of a close call. And by the looks of the deep, dark circles below Gordon's and Alfred's eyes, both men had been quite shaken too.

"Two hundred yards behind me would have been in the middle of the river. In either one of the two other choppers then."

Gordon's eyes widened.

"Three helicopters? We only had one flying yesterday evening. The other two are grounded for heavy maintenance."

"One could have been GCN then," Alfred said.

Gordon frowned. "Possible. And the last one?"

Bruce exhaled, and closed his eyes to reconstitute the scene in his mind again.

Because of the sonar embedded in his cowl, he had not seen the markings on the chopper that had forced him to change buildings at the last minute. Likewise for the one which had hovered above him in the Narrows, he had assumed that there were police helicopters.

"Night tourism..." Bruce groaned, massaging his temples. This hide-and-seek session with his unconscious was leaving him blanked.

"Or the Mob," Alfred said flatly.

Bruce straightened again, and raised troubled eyes toward his old friend.

If he was right then the current Mafia godfather, Ricky "Lucky" Luciano, was taking out all the stops to get rid of Batman.

And there was Falcone's son, Andrea Garibaldi. Though the man was here to ratify the buyout of the _Gotham Globe and Mail_  by his media empire, his arrival was a coincidence that let him dubious. Of all the country's dying newspapers, he had to buy this one. Why?

Could one of them be behind his judicial predicament?

But somehow, that felt wrong.

If Luciano knew who he was, he would have sent an assassin after Bruce Wayne. During daylight, Bruce was an easy target. No, this affair cropped up at a bad moment, but it was probably not linked to his nightly activities.

After all, Bruce Wayne too had made some enemies.

Lao, for instance. He had humiliated the man last year by sending Lucius to Hong-Kong to cancel their deal. Not that Bruce believed in ghosts, but maybe someone in his family or a close associate was out there seeking revenge. Okay, that sounded a little far-fetched. Or not. Lao had many contacts within Gotham's underground.

As if guessing about the twists and turns his mind was taking him, Alfred patted him on the shoulder.

"Lucius is looking at the Foundation's books to understand the financial set-up that lead to this arrest. We'll know more in a few hours. Until then, you shall take as much rest as possible. I'm afraid the coming days will be no picnic."

Bruce silently nodded his gratitude. He had more and more difficulty keeping his eyes opened, and it had not escaped his friend's keen sight.

As Alfred adjusted the covers above him, he saw the Commissioner moving away.

"Gordon?" he said, stopping him on the doorframe, "Thank you."

"You'll never have to," his ally replied with a faint smile.

Soothed by the echo of his own, past words, Bruce closed his eyes. A mere second later, he was deeply asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

During the day, a warm front from the south had brought the temperatures slightly above the freezing point, dragging a disturbance in its wake that now unleashed an icy rain over Gotham.

The sound of thousands of shards hitting the ground-to-ceiling bay windows of his bedroom had yanked Bruce back to consciousness. Or was it the darkness?

These last three years seemed to have irremediably altered his sleep pattern. In a certain way, the Batman had _vampirized_  him.

And tonight, the city was as damp, cold, and dark as the caves below the Wayne manor.

The perfect weather to let the bat out, despite Alfred's protests. Without surprise, his old friend had not felt particularly moved by the cynical joke.

Anyway, no matter how unpleasant it was to go out in such piercing, drenching coldness, a serial killer was still lurking out somewhere, maybe spotting his next victim. Bruce's personal comfort was just not a parameter in the overall equation.

Jaw tightly clenched to keep his teeth from chattering, Batman hauled himself on the roof of the building facing the Bodies exhibit main entrance.

Like he had done with the other surveillance equipments watching the dark alleys in a two blocks perimeter around the exhibit, he replaced the camera's and satellite cell phone's batteries, and checked that the connection between the two devices was working.

If the snow storm had ruined yesterday night's surveillance, it was still one of his best chances to catch a clue on the murderer's identity.

Batman was readjusting the sight, when the right, upper corner of the thin virtual screen embedded in his cowl suddenly lightened, displaying a proximity alert with the radio-emitter stuck under Falcone's son's vehicle.

Intrigued, he zoomed on the traffic coming from Uptown Gotham on his left, and saw an imposing black Mercedes moving away from the flood of cars to stop in front of the Bodies exhibit entrance.

A few seconds later, Andrea Garibaldi stepped out of the cabin in company of a woman, the playboy's bodyguard standing close to them.

Batman muttered a curse, annoyed.

Until now, Garibaldi's moves had suggested that he was in Gotham only for official business.

He had not even yet gone to the cemetery where his father was buried, nor tried to contact Luciano. Maybe by choosing his mother's name, the man wanted to show that he had wiped his father from his life, and the mafia with him?

Well... that was yet to be proven.

As the couple lined up on the sidewalk to pay their entrance fee, Batman zoomed in on the woman, seized by a feeling of _déjà-vu._

Crap... What the hell was Vale doing here?

But then, she was working for the man now, and Vale could hardly go unnoticed, both as a woman and a journalist. They had probably met during one of his visits at the  _Globe and Mail's_ headquarters.

Batman groaned in annoyance upon seeing them disappear into the lobby.

He could not keep himself from thinking that Vale was replacing a dinner with a falsely-accused playboy by an outing with a not-yet-convicted one. And now he regretted that Alfred had cancelled their dinner, hoping that he would sleep around the clock.

The sight of a black Lincoln SUV suddenly attracted his attention, calling him back to order.

Obviously, he was not the only one Garibaldi's presence made nervous. Luciano had ordered his henchmen to tail Falcone's son.

Batman groaned in frustration again. Vale would be safer not to be seen in public with Garibaldi.

A smirk appeared on his lips as an idea took shape in the back of his mind.

That would be petty, but hell... Not to mention that it would be interesting to see what Garibaldi would do with his evening once free.

A few minutes later, Vale rushed out of the exhibit, and raised a hand to hail a taxi, certain that she was going to be the first journalist to interview the caped crusader.

Work first and foremost; pleasure after, eventually.

Hoping that this little strategy would not backfire later, Batman stared at her taxi tail lights melting with the traffic, shimmering on the slick wet asphalt, and fading in a kaleidoscope effect.

Garibaldi's bodyguard appeared, and Batman focused his attention on him.

His head was slightly tilted to his left, and he had a hand raised to his collar. He was probably calling for the driver to come fetch the boss, as the quick reappearance of the black Mercedes confirmed a few seconds later.

The man turned his head back toward the building's entrance and nodded. Garibaldi walked out, but against all odds, he did not go for his car.

At a brisk pace, he crossed the street and headed toward the Lincoln SUV.

His bodyguard followed him, but suddenly stopped on the roadway, and stayed still with his fists clenched. He had probably been ordered to stay behind; something he did not seem to appreciate. What was his boss doing?

A few seconds later, Garibaldi moved back toward his car, and dived into the cabin.

The Lincoln's wheels crushed the icy roadway, and smoothly merged within the traffic. The black Mercedes followed.

Despite the rain that was still falling and covering his armor with a thin layer of ice, thrill rose in Batman's guts. Quickly, he climbed down from the building's roof to go back to the Batpod. He did not need the tracking system to know where the convoy was heading.

The Docklands; _Lucky_  Luciano's den.

Using the network of dark, narrow one-way streets without bothering to follow the rules of the road, Batman moved a bit faster than reasonable on the wet surface to arrive at the ninety-seventh pier before Garibaldi.

Though he had promised Alfred he would not patrol tonight, tailing and spying on the Mob would not fall under the definition, right?

He'd better be careful on this one, though. Alfred had threatened him with retaliations if he came back with a body temperature below ninety-eight degrees. Knowing his old friend, he would be safer to cook his own meals for the next few days, just in case...

About three miles further, the imposing shadows of giant cranes appeared, standing out behind a stack of containers.

Batman frowned.

Multiple spotlights illuminated the night as if an immobile swarm of fireflies hovered above the pier.

A cargo ship was docked.

 _Damn.._. he mentally swore as he crossed an entanglement of rails, and squeezed in the dark space between a train and a prefab. The activity around the ship would make his intrusion more delicate.

Fifty feet in front of him, thirty degrees on his right, the SUV appeared, and broke down in front of a high metallic fence, next to a small sentry box.

A guard appeared, briefly directed his flashlight on the driver before moving the beam toward the Mercedes that had just stopped a few feet behind the SUV.

After exchanging a few words with the first vehicle's driver, the guard moved back in the sentry box, and the fence slid opened a second later.

Batman waited for the Mercedes' tail lights to disappear into the alley between the two warehouses, and moved back.

Quickly, he headed toward the vast parking lot at the end of the docks, which gave access to one of the city parks. He would find plenty of dark spots there to park the Batpod.

About five minutes later, Batman was lying flat on his stomach on top of a pack of four containers standing on the edge of dozens of other.

A hundred feet ahead on his left, the SUV and the Mercedes were parked near the prefabs that sheltered the administrative offices of Newam International, one of the companies belonging to the Sicilian family, while on his right, the huge white and red castle bridge of the  _MV Kummura_ , a cargo ship flying the Maltese flag, was brightly lightened.

 _Damn it!_  Batman mentally swore, catching sight of a group of three henchmen climbing up the gangway.

The Godfather was onboard the cargo ship.

Batman took a deep breath, thinking fast about his options.

Getting inside the ship was not truly a problem. He had done it before. But this time he did not want to find a dark spot in the lower decks to hide himself; he wanted to sneak a bug under a heavily guarded doorstep.

Entirely another thing.

Climbing up and down the steep accommodation ladders without being able to check first if the narrow corridor it lead to was free or not was more than risky.

If the shadow of his cape was seen, the alert would be sounded, and the unexpected meeting between Luciano and Garibaldi would come to an end. He would have accomplished nothing but put himself into trouble.

Deeply frustrated, Batman was about to satisfy himself with the intel that Garibaldi was not an innocent playboy, when a creaking sound behind him attracted his attention.

Indifferent to the rain, a bum was moving between the containers toward his position, dragging behind him a cart full of cans, bottles, and other recyclable detritus.

A smirk raised the corner of Batman's mouth.

The micro-emitter would go onboard the  _MV Kummura_  without the Dark Knight putting a toe on the main deck. All he had to do was to make enough racket to push Luciano to send one of his inner circle henchmen to check what was going on.

The bum's rain poncho above his underclothes, Bruce silently closed the container where he had hidden the unconscious man, and Batman's armor.

Bent forward, he staggered toward the cargo ship, dragging the creaking cart behind him, and clenching his jaw tight.

The strong smell of alcohol and grime that emanated from the scarf that he had wrapped tight around his lower face was sickening, and the woolen hat under the rain hood was downright itching.

Bruce cursed, not exactly proud of himself, both for knocking out the bum and for the horrible smells that were making his nose complain.

At one time, he too had not smelled very good, especially when he was in that Chinese jail. Back then, clothes had only served one purpose: to protect him from cold. He was getting too comfy.

However, as he caught sight of the man now guarding the gangway leading to the  _MV Kummura_ , and his four-legged companion, Bruce exhaled slowly.

Comfy was not exactly the right term to describe his present situation.

 _Bloody reckless, hotspur..._ Alfred would mutter, with good reason.

There was no guarantee that the guard would not kill the disturbing tramp, and throw his corpse to feed the sharks.

Teeth clenched, Bruce staggered forward, feigning to have difficulties with dragging his load.

The Doberman suddenly jumped to its paws, and barked.

"Hey!" the guard shouted, coming toward him, "We already told ya not to wander here!"

Bruce kowtowed to look even smaller, and continued as if he had not heard the reprimand. Seeing a can on the ground, he bent forward slowly to pick it up, and put it into his cart.

"Hey! Move away or I let the dog have fun!" the guard cried, giving the dog's leash just enough slack so the beast would jump forward, and be restrained a few feet from Bruce.

Feigning to be startled, Bruce raised an arm in protection over his face, and stepped back. Doing so, he stumbled, knocking down the cart which content scattered on the ground with a sound of scrap iron.

The dog barked, pulling furiously on its chain to take a snack out of the bum's leg.

Bruce seized his head and moaned, devastated. On all fours, he was picking up the cans one by one when he heard the crackle of a voice coming out of the guard's radio.

"Nothing, just that damn, stinking tramp, and..."

As Bruce saw that the guard raising his eyes toward the castle bridge, he threw the can he had in hand at the dog's face.

"Dammit!" the guard cried when he felt a powerful tug on his arm as the dog threw itself on Bruce.

Having anticipated the reaction, Bruce seized the beast by its throat just before its fangs found his face. As he struggled to keep the ferocious dog from biting him, he suddenly cried out in pain, faking having been bitten. The guard pulled on the chain, snatching the dog away from him.

Holding his left arm tight against his chest, Bruce rolled on himself as if his clothes were in fire, crying in an apparently agonizing pain.

"Fuck!" the guard snapped, pacing around him, at a loss of what he was supposed to do. Helping a bleeding, foul-smelling tramp was not something he had expected to do in his life.

Steps suddenly echoed on the gangway.

Bruce cast a furtive glance toward the cargo ship, and saw two men climbing down on the docks.

Below the scarf, a smirk appeared on his lips. One of them was Garibladi's bodyguard.

Bruce rose to his feet with difficulty, and staggered toward him, begging for help. As he collapsed on his lap, he slid the micro-emitter in Garibaldi's henchman jacket pocket.

But the guy was no good Samaritan.

A disgusted pout on the face, he forced Bruce to let him go, kicking him hard in the guts.

Suppressing a moan, Bruce fell on his back, and rolled on his side. Aware that bums were not supposed to have guts as hard as steal, he had not clenched his abdominal muscles.

 _Damn..._  he mentally swore, pleading for his armor as he rose to his knees. Indeed, he was getting too comfy...

As he tried to stand up, a kick hit him in the ribs, sending him rolling away dangerously close to the edge of the pier. With dread, Bruce cast a look at the waters twenty feet down.

_No way!_

Between each blow, Bruce crawled away from the edge, resisting an urge to fight back. It would only ruin all his efforts.

He was about to stand up and run away when a boot crushed his spinal column, and pinned him to the ground.

As pain shot in his left shoulder, making him clench his jaw tight, a hand seized him by the scarf, forcing his head up.

"Drop the knife, son of a bitch! You don't decide who lives and dies on our ground!" a man suddenly barked.

Fists clenched, and breath blocked, Bruce craned his neck to cast a look above his shoulder.

The sight of Luciano's personal bodyguard aiming a gun to his assailant's head could not have filled him with more relief.

A second later, the knife that was about to cut his throat fell in a metallic clatter.

Garibaldi's henchman furiously knocked Bruce's head against the ground before releasing him.

 _Bloody bastard!_  Bruce mentally swore, as he tasted blood in his mouth. His nose and forehead burnt like hell.

"You! Shove off before I change my mind, and let that dog finish with you," Luciano's man barked.

Bruce did not have to be told twice.

Staggering every three to four steps, he ran away as fast as possible for a shaken and injured tramp.

Thanks to a petty territory fight, he was going to survive his risky chosen tactic. Well... if that fucking fuckhead went back to his master's side like a good lapdog.

A few minutes later, Batman was putting his cowl back with a certain relief, and listened to the meeting, hoping it was worth the long list of his personal miseries.

And it was. Despite the static, the content was clear.

Neapolitan by his mother's side, Garibaldi had been sent to relay the message that the city was now under the Camorra's _jurisdiction._

The Cosa Nostra's reign was finished.

Batman felt cold shivers running down his spine, freezing him to the bones, though it was not the icy rain that caused them. The Sicilians were not going to give up Gotham without a fight. A war had just been declared.

In haste, Batman left the docks. He had to warn Vicky Vale not to be seen at Garibaldi's side at all costs.

The mafiosi killed in broad daylights, outside of a cafe or a restaurant, in the middle of the traffic jam. They did not care if innocents were caught in their cross fires.

As he drove toward her apartment in Midtown Gotham, Batman saw Dent's face appear in the mist of rain droplets, quickly followed by Judge Surillo's.

With the DA, the strong woman had not hesitated to re-enact the famous maxi-trial a judge, ironically named Falcone, had organized against the Sicilian Mafia in Palermo in the eighties.

Four-hundred-and-sixty-five accused in a heavily guarded  _bunker-_ court;

Three-hundred-and-sixty convictions;

Two-thousand-six-hundred-and- sixty-five years of jail in total.

The Cosa Nostra had reacted accordingly, matching the affront, and placed half-a-ton of explosives below the highway where the judge's car had driven on.

Dent and Surillo had done Judge Falcone a great tribute last year. Though like him, they had _in time_ paid the same, heavy price.

A price that Batman still personally paid.

A price he did not want Vicky Vale to pay. Already the journalist did not have a good reputation amongst Gotham's underground.

Her last series of articles about the irregularities in the process the city council used to allocate contracts to firms of consulting-engineering for public works had earned her his respect, both by weakening Luciano's business, and by placing Mayor Garcia in a difficult position. Something he was undoubtedly grateful for.

Though now he began to wonder if her source could have a hidden agenda. It would not be the first time a journalist got manipulated.

As Batman merged onto Midtown's bridge, a realization hit him head-on.

Could this be the real reason why she wanted to talk to Bruce Wayne? To check if he was implicated in these malpractices with the Mayor? If Vale thought that he was a mafioso, it would explain why she had been worried about retaliations against Alexander Knox.

Batman groaned, disgusted. The weight of his trials had just crashed back on his shoulders.

Nonetheless, no matter her opinion about Bruce Wayne, he had to warn her.

Ten minutes later, Batman stepped over the iron guardrail of the journalist's small balcony with a wince of pain. His left shoulder was burning from the ten floors' climb, and despite the effort, he was freezing.

A sigh of relief escaped his lips when he noticed that a faint light filtered around the drawn curtains.

Vale was still up and about. Batman took a deep breath to ease his breathing, and knocked.

A few seconds later, the curtain was spread slightly, and a ray of light briefly dispelled the shadows where he was standing.

Behind the glass-door, Vale stared at him for a moment, before opening the left panel.

"What do you want?" she asked a bit harshly.

Batman winced.

Obviously, the young woman had not appreciated his earlier subterfuge that had wretch her from Garibaldi's claws.

Back then, he had not planned on meeting her, so he had sent her to the one place in the city where she would understand right away that he would not show up, and not wait in vain: the rear alley behind the MCU building.

"A war between the Neapolitan mafia and Gotham's underground is going to burst in the coming days," he growled, "Stay as far away as possible from Andrea Garibaldi."

Vale averted her eyes briefly, and sighed in an apparent effort to control her nerves. "So you ruined my evening just for that reason?"

Batman bit his lip. If looks could kill...

"Luciano is no angel, and you already attracted his attention with your articles. Don't give him one more reason to come after you."

"I can't believe this," Vale said, briefly averting her eyes, before muttering a curse, and adding, "Is that all you have to tell me? That journalism is a dangerous choice of career?"

Batman frowned, and took a deep breath, not knowing exactly why he was feeling irritated by her reaction.

He was about to turn away, when Vale calmly said, "Come in, it's freezing."

Taken short by the sudden change of mind, Batman shook his head.

"As you wish, but you owe me one," she replied, pointing him with her finger.

"How so?" he growled, perplexed.

Vale smirked, and said, "You gave me an idea with your camera last night. I had one hidden in my bag this evening, and was filming all the persons I crossed the path in the exhibition. With Garibaldi's bodyguard watching out for me, that was about the safest conditions I could ever hope to investigate. But maybe there's more to do..."

Vale paused, and sighed. "I'll go back to the exhibition tomorrow evening, can I count on you?"

Batman straightened, stunned.

What the hell was Vale planning here? Was she suggesting that she'd bait the killer, and count on Batman to arrest him?

"Too dangerous," he growled, not liking this idea at all.

"Someone has to arrest him!"

"That's the police's job. Not yours."

"Come on! You more than anyone know that the cops in this city are incompetent, and life isn't so simple anyway."

"That's unfair, and I suggest you make life simplest for your own good," he growled, turning away to aim the facing building's roof.

"One last thing," Vale cried, stopping him, "I was right. You did not kill the police officers last year."

Jaw clenched, Batman threw himself into the air, eager to disappear into the night.


	7. Chapter 7

"Thank you, Alfred," Lucius said as he grabbed the cup of coffee. "How is he this morning?"

"In the warmth of Morpheus' arms," Alfred replied with a sad smile, joining Lucius on one of the stools around the kitchen's central island.

Twenty minutes ago, Alfred had climbed to the second floor's private apartment to wake up his young master, but like the previous days, increasing the level of light going through the tinted windows had done nothing to stir the exhausted man out of sleep.

"Lucky him," Lucius chuckled, before adding, "Seriously?"

Alfred put down his own cup in front of him, and sighed, remembering the lock of hair that was concealing a large bruise on Bruce's forehead. The one on the bridge of his nose was less discreet, and made Alfred wonder if someone could have crashed a cobblestone square in the Batman's face.

"Physically, to say he's drained is an understatement. Though after two months of patrolling the streets tirelessly, and his dive in the river, it's not surprising. Mentally... well, I thought this serial killer's affair had yanked him away from Rachel's ghost and the desire to clean the streets from dusk till dawn, but he gained some nice bruises yesterday night, so there's still a part in him that desires to pick a fight."

"He went out in this weather?" Lucius asked, eyes wide as much with disbelief as anger.

"You know how difficult it is to ground him." Alfred winced, thinking once more about the equilibrist act it was to keep Bruce from giving free rein to his dark alter ego, "but at least, he came back early, so I guess my threat to drug him wasn't completely lost."

Lucius shook his head and chuckled slightly, no doubt remembering the week-long chemically-induced coma they had administered to Bruce three months after Rachel's death. It had been their only option to force him to sleep, and to go easy on the gas pedal, so to speak. Though it had worked, a threat from time to time was necessary to keep him on track.

"What is this?" Alfred asked, pointing at the colorful newspaper rolled in Lucius' hand.

"The morning edition of the  _Gotham Sun_."

As Lucius was giving it to him, Alfred saw all mischievousness disappearing at once from his friend's face. His now-serious glance instantly called Alfred back to the gravity of the present situation.

Alfred put his coffee down on the black, marble counter in front of him, and took out his glasses from his waistcoat pocket to cast a look at the tabloid.

"Blimmey..." he muttered with a wince.

On the front page, two pictures were arranged in mirror so Bruce was raising a glass of champagne toward Carmine Falcone, who was performing the same gesture, as if the two men were clinking glasses.

Below was written in big red letters:

_Is Bruce Wayne Faust's reincarnation?_

"Wait for the article on pages six and seven. I've already sent a copy to Flettmann. He's waiting for Bruce's call to press charges for libel and muckraking."

Suppressing a groan, Alfred quickly found the article in question.

 _According to an anonymous source, a few hours after Joe Chill's murder by the mafia, the young_ Prince of Gotham  _was seen in the Godfather's den, a restaurant bar in Downtown Gotham near the Docklands. At the end of their conversation, both men shook hands, apparently satisfied by the execution of Wayne's parents' murderer. Indeed, both parties had a reason to kill the man who was going to be freed after only thirteen years of jail in exchange for providing the FBI with valuable intel about Falcone's activities._

_Had this murder sealed an unspeakable partnership between Wayne and the Sicilian mafia?_

The rest of the article was just another long list of Bruce's youthful indiscretions at Princeton. There was nothing new about it, except that now every ride was tainted by suspicions of alcohol and drug consumption, organized high-stakes poker games... Knox never wrote once that Bruce was in charge of providing his peers with illegal substances; it was safer, and more efficient, to let the readers jump to the conclusion alone.

Alfred breathed deeply to resist a sudden urge to crush the trash in his hands, while his mind was taking him back toward the nebulous circumstances in which Bruce had disappeared ten years ago.

"He didn't shake any hands that night. From what I've been told, he was at the receiving end of Falcone's bodyguard's punch, before being roughly thrown on the sidewalk."

Rachel had called the manor in the early morning, panicked that Bruce's cell phone was unreachable. Alfred had tried to reassure her that Bruce was probably just wandering somewhere to cool down his mind after the past day's ordeal.

But what she had revealed to him had shaken him to the core.

Not only had Falcone pulled the rug from under Bruce's feet by executing Chill, but Rachel had left Bruce, armed, in front of one of the Godfather's restaurants so he could go and "thank" him.

Although Alfred had doubted that the powerful mafioso would kill someone as famous as Bruce Wayne, it was nonetheless very unlikely that Bruce's insolence would be left uncorrected.

Imagining his furious  _protégé_ in a sorry state, lying flat on his back in a gloomy alley or a garbage dumpster, Alfred had dived into his vehicle, and headed toward the Docklands.

By the time Alfred had made it to the restaurant, the Godfather was gone, the lights were dim, there was no client left at the bar.

He had been searching the rear alley for any trace of his young master when the backdoor had opened. The wan faces of the two waitresses who had stepped out appeared again. For a few bills, they had agreed to tell him what had happened.

No, Bruce had not been blinded by his ire to the point of approaching Falcone with a gun. The discussion had been stormy, but the correction less severe than he had feared. Bruce had left on his two feet.

Damn... Alfred had felt the morning of Chill's discharge that Bruce was not well. He'd seen the ire burning in Bruce's eyes. But who could blame him? What had annoyed Alfred more then, was the realization that he was not in a position anymore to feel how Bruce truly felt. He seldom saw or talked to the young man, who was away at Princeton most of the time.

Before his mind could summon more ghosts, Alfred called himself back to order. Only the present mattered right now.

"I don't like the timing," he said, averting worried eyes from a picture of Bruce taken during one of his latest playboy expositions. Sloppy with four women squeezing around him, he looked like he was having the time of his life.

Bloody hell... Alfred may have made a mistake in pushing Bruce to act against the criminal elements of Gotham. Bruce always did do things properly.

His strength, and his curse as well.

Lucius nodded gravely.

"I agree with you. With this affair of money laundering, this bashing is doing a lot more damage than it should. It would be urgent for him to gain back the favors of the press, or at the very least not to sit still while they're destroying his reputation. The stock is plummeting."

"Wall Street's manic-depressive mood swings are the least of my concerns right now," a grumbling voice muttered.

Both Lucius and Alfred straightened at Bruce's silent intrusion. With a dazed look, Bruce walked to join them around the counter, and hoisted himself on the stool next to Lucius with a wince.

"What the bloody hell are you doing barefoot, master Bruce?" Alfred exclaimed, assessing in one glance his young master. Unkempt, sweat pearling on his forehead, his T-shirt pressed against his skin, slightly breathless, Bruce looked like he was just coming back from a ten miles jogging, not from the short walk from his bed.

"You can bring back the thermostats to normal, Alfred, it's way too warm in the penthouse," he replied, lying over the counter, and burying his head between his arms.

Alfred exchanged a worried look with Lucius, stood up, and moved to take a glass out of the cupboard above the sink. While he was filling it with water, Lucius went to the cabinet, and tossed Alfred a box of extra-strength Tylenol that he caught mid-flight. From the corner of his eye, Alfred then saw Lucius grabbing the ear thermometer, and moving back toward Bruce, apparently asleep.

While he was dissolving two tablets with a spoon, Alfred saw Lucius' brow darkening.

"Hmm... One-o-four point two," the latter announced.

"That definitely makes you eligible for this, master Bruce," Alfred announced, putting the medicine in front of him.

Bruce raised his eyes, cast a look at the still foaming water, and let his head falling back between his arms. "My stomach says no."

"Very well, I'll be forced to start an I.V. then," Alfred said, moving toward the kitchen stockroom where a locked fridge contained a medicine stock worthy of a small field hospital.

"Er... wait a second, Alfred, I think I saw suppositories somewhere in there..." Lucius added, feigning to search the pharmacy again.

Bruce groaned his surrender, and drank the medicine in one go, obviously preferring to get rid of it as fast as possible, before putting back his head between his arms.

Satisfied, Alfred poured a cup of coffee and put it down in front of Bruce, knowing that the aroma would make him emerge.

Or not.

After a few minutes without any sign of life, save for a slight snore, Lucius whispered, "He's gonna fall from the stool if we let him sleep here."

A groan sounded, discreet, but conveying the message that Bruce's brain was running some essential  _subroutines,_ including listening.

Alfred chuckled. "You'll join us in a while in the lounge, master Bruce," he said, waving to Lucius to follow him out of the kitchen.

"No... That won't be necessary," Bruce sighed, straightening on the stool, before turning his feverish eyes toward Lucius, "Have you found anything in the Foundation's books?"

Lucius' eyes darkened once more as he sighed, "Do you remember  _InvescoLee_?"

Bruce nodded. "Yeah... It's one of the funds you had some reserves about when we planned to kick Earl out of the boardroom, though I did manage to acquire it finally."

Alfred frowned, remembering the hours Bruce and Lucius had spent to plan the financial set-up that had allowed Bruce to pick up a majority of shares during the group's Initial Public Offering.

"Why the reserve, if I may?" Alfred asked, a bit lost. This was not exactly his field of expertise.

" _InvescoLee_ invested in armaments, something we knew would attract them to Wayne Enterprises since Earl was positioning the company to be in the top ten of this sector... The holding also invested in the casinos, games, and lotteries' sector as well," Bruce explained with a wince that showed that he was not quite proud of himself on this case, "Anyway, I dismantled it into pieces as soon as I could to only keep the safe investments, sold the rest to hedge funds."

"I bet this made you some  _friends,_ " Alfred muttered, sarcastic.

"Friends that one would rather avoid," Lucius said, sending Bruce an  _I-told-you-so look_ that Alfred noticed with some amusement. He was not the only one using that particular expression, obviously.

The embarrassed, and annoyed glance Bruce sent Lucius told Alfred that the past debate on acquiring this holding had been everything but easy.

"And which criminal organization's tail did you crust, sir?"

" _Belombra Corp._ detained a certain percentage of  _InvescoLee_ ," Bruce replied.

Alfred shook his head. It was not only Batman who was reckless...

Even if Alfred did not understand much about the financial sphere, he knew this company, having read its name in the list of mafia-owned business. Based in the Caiman Islands, the  _Belombra Corp_. belonged to Luciano's first cousin – Paulo Baldacci, a man in his late forties, a gangster powerful enough to dare to live in the open, fearless of the law - and owning several casinos, bars, and hotels.

"The curious thing was that lately, a consortium of banks put its hands on all the dismantled parts of  _InvescoLee._ Said consortium of banks is also engaged, by one of their branches, with micro-credit in developing countries. You see were I'm going?" Lucius asked.

"This consortium also owns or acquired some of the ethical funds the Foundation invests in," Bruce replied, running a hand in his hair, "Crap..."

"They rearranged the pieces, like in a sliding puzzle. And now, the companies that were under  _InvescoLee_ 's profile of investment have all been integrated into the ethical funds."

Lucius paused. The embarrassment that Alfred could be read on his face made him frown.

"If it was only this, I guess I wouldn't be that much in trouble," Bruce said, having too the intuition that there was more. "There's more with  _Belombra Corp._ , isn't there?"

"According to documents that have been sent to the FBI by an anonymous insider, not only are a substantial percentage of the Foundation's investments going into this company, but your name appears amongst the board of major stockholders with twenty-six percents of shares. According to the same anonymous insider, you never went there in person, and were represented by an  _emissary_ who has disappeared of course."

A heavy silence fell on the kitchen. As Bruce stood up and started to pace around, Alfred met his cold, furious glance.

"So the Foundation, via an ethical fund, is investing money in a society that belongs to the Sicilian mafia and  _me_ , then the interests are allocated as grants to the city for several programs, including the reconstruction of the Harvey Dent Memorial Hospital, that the Mayor so brilliantly gave to one of Luciano's construction and civil works companies. Just perfect. How much do I risk here?" Bruce asked, though his sarcasm did not invite any answer.

"An hour before the Feds knocked to his door, Baldacci left the country. He's probably hiding somewhere in the Caribbean right now, and will soon leave for a country with no extradition treaty with the US," Lucius added.

Alfred frowned. "So whoever trapped you, wanted to trap Baldacci too. Who would want to take down a Godfather and you at the same time?" Alfred asked. The thought alone caused a cold shudder to run down his spine.

"The Neapolitan mafia," Bruce groaned, leaning against the dinner table, arms crossed on his chest, "They are taking Baldacci down to weaken Luciano, and get their hands on Gotham."

Alfred stared at Bruce as he said those words, jaws clenched, eyes piercing a hole in the ground. Something else was annoying him. Why would the Camorra want to take down Bruce Wayne too? To give him his money back for dismantling  _InvescoLee?_ Or was the Foundation just offering an easy way to attack Luciano? Though the most serious question here might be who was impersonating his young master? Creating and using forged documents to make business in his name. This could not be done without an insider help. Insider to the Foundation, or worse, insider to Wayne Enterprises.

"I assume the authorities have done a forensic analysis on the documents they have been sent?" Alfred asked, turning his gaze toward Lucius, who nodded gravely.

"The preliminary analysis on your name and signature revealed that they are apparently authentic. Flettmann has asked for a full analysis. We'll have the result in a few days. Though it might be too late."

Both Alfred and Bruce raised their heads to focus wide eyes on Wayne Enterprises' CEO.

Lucius took a very deep breath, and stood up to pace around, showing an unusual nervousness that could not mean anything good.

"I've seen many things in my career, and what is going on, your trials, the press' vitriolic bashing, the stock going down... it scares me. I'm almost a hundred percent sure that someone in the group's board is a traitor. A traitor that helped with the forgery, and who is preparing the field for a take-over bid."

"Bloody hell..." Alfred muttered, watching Bruce paling even further, his face hardening as his jaws clenched tight.

"Lau," Bruce muttered.

Alfred frowned, remembering at once the Chinese businessman that the Batman had kidnapped in Hong-Kong last year. Bruce had told him something about Lao's multinational company trying to enter into the group's capital back then, but with Lucius, they had cancelled the deal as soon as they had understood that a Chinese triad was behind Lau. The group had come a hair's breadth away from being used for money laundering.

Could the triad have found another way to embezzle Wayne Enterprises, and to avenge Lao's humiliation and death in the same breath? Could they be in cahoots with the Neapolitan mafia, proving the old expression "the enemy of my enemy is my friend"? It would be a rather strange association, but when business and vengeance crossed each other's line, some unexpected alliances could appear.

"We'll know soon enough," Lucius said, straightening on his stool, "The responsible party will unmask himself in a matter of hours, a day or two at most. I did not say anything to Flettmann on this last suspicion. I thought checking on the comings and goings of your associates would be something you would rather do discreetly."

Bruce exhaled very slowly, and nodded. "And here I thought my day couldn't go worse..." he muttered.

Alfred winced. "In fact, sir, Miss Vale will be here for lunch in about thirty minutes," he said, truly feeling bad for his young master.

Bruce looked at him with cold, blank eyes. He was not surprised, not annoyed, not moved either. Imperceptibly, he nodded, and walked out of the kitchen.

As Alfred watched his  _protégé_ disappear into the coldness of the marble corridor, he cursed once more against the life that threw Bruce ordeal after ordeal, almost wondering if overhead, some ancient Greek gods could be playing a sordid game, testing his resilience like they had done with Odysseus, who was condemned not to find his way back to his peaceful home in Ithaca, sailing from one storm to another, facing monster after monster, in so many attempts from the gods to bring him to his knees.

The only difference was that Odysseus had relied on Penelope's love and his desire to know his son to survive every battle, to see him through his darkest moments, alive.

Bruce had only ghosts.


	8. Chapter 8

Rolling up his sleeves, Bruce walked out of his bedroom, and turned right in the marble corridor toward the opened staircase that led down into the huge reception hall. Despite the medicine, he was still feeling too warm, though at least the slight dizzy spell had faded and his head had stopped pounding, allowing his brain to align coherent thoughts.

Damn, this was the worst time ever to fall sick, he cursed. The worst time ever to have a bruised face too.

He had put some make-up on the bruises, but to him they were still obvious. He had no doubt that, with his bruises and feverish eyes, he looked as if he had found some trouble after a drunken party. How was he going to explain this?

He was actively reviewing all plausible home accidents in his mind when he heard Alfred's energetic footsteps echoing in the stairwell, and raised his eyes.

"Ah, master Bruce, I-"

A few feet from him Alfred suddenly froze.

"What?" Bruce frowned, feeling a cold stone falling in the pit of his stomach upon meeting his old friend's annoyed expression. Had the hostile takeover bid already burst?

Alfred deeply sighed, slightly shook his head, and said, "If your choice of clothes is an attempt to fit the coldness of your penthouse, sir, don't change anything."

Frowning at the sarcastic comment, Bruce briefly looked at his black pants and polo shirt, and shrugged his shoulders, perplexed. "You said to drop the mask, Alfred, I thought I'd avoid the suit."

"I told you to drop the mask, sir, not to put another one."

"Well, I feel fine like this. Are the bruises still visible?" he asked, more worried for his face than he was for his clothes.

"If Miss Vale doesn't eye you as greedily as the young women in the  _Gotham Sun's_ pictures, you should be fine, master Bruce."

Bruce sent Alfred a perplexed glance. Damn... he was slow this morning. "Which pictures are you talking about?"

"I'll show you later. The young lady is already waiting for you in the lounge," his old friend replied, enjoining him with a wave of his arm to climb down the stairs.

Bruce sighed and followed him, having the gloomy feeling that this was going to be a long day.

"I'll serve lunch in the adjacent dining room in a few minutes, sir," Alfred said as they reached the bottom, shifting back in his serious butler mode.

"I hate that room..." Bruce muttered as he turned right in the hall, leaving Alfred to continue alone toward the corridor leading to the kitchen.

A few steps later, Bruce walked by the huge glass and brick sculptured wall that separated the reception hall from the lounge, and scanned the place. As he caught sight of the young woman in front of the bay windows at the opposite end of the room, he stopped, feeling all of a sudden disconcerted.

Vicky Vale was standing on her tip toes, her neck extended as if she was trying to see what was going on in the street three hundred feet below. Bruce winced. She was going to hit her head for nothing as the proximity of the adjacent building, though lower than the one he lived in, prevented anyone from seeing the ground.

"Miss Vale?" he said, stepping in.

Startled, the young journalist turned a bit quickly, and almost lost her balance. "Oh! Mr. Wayne, finally we meet," she replied, walking toward him with a smile, as if nothing had happened.

Feeling amused by the ballerina performance, Bruce returned the smile and extended a hand, "Thank you for coming," he said, pleased to have discovered a childish curiosity in the serious journalist.

"Thank you for receiving me," she replied, shaking his hand quite energetically. A bit too much. Though she managed not to blush, she was nonetheless a tad nervous.

"Especially under the circumstances, I was afraid that you would prefer to avoid the media now."

Bruce exhaled very slowly.

Like she had proven with Batman, each of her seemingly harmless questions or statements could conceal a hidden agenda. He had to be careful of his answers, and try not to let the expert  _ballerina_ in front of him lead the dance.

"Only the tabloids' reporters, Miss Vale," he smirked, leaning against the back of one of three leather loveseats set in U-shape around a small table, facing the wall where a huge TV set was concealed.

As he heard Vale chuckling, Bruce tensed up, and mentally swore against himself. His playboy mask was rising like a second nature. He was doing this for so long... He sighed. Following Alfred's advice to behave normally was going to be as easy as forcing a right-hander to become left-hander.

Bruce averted his eyes toward the dinner room further on his left and caught sight of the two white dishes set on one end of the long ebony table.

With a certain despair, he realized that there was no way he was going to be himself in this part of the penthouse when Alfred came in the dinner room, carrying a large silver tray in his hands from which emanated a smell that had woken up Bruce's appetite ever since he was a kid.

Bruce took a deep breath, taking stock of his empty stomach, gurgling in impatience and ordering his feet to move toward the beef stroganoff without further undue delay. Alfred was a wizard.

"Miss Vale," he said with a shy smile, motioning for her to move toward the dinner room.

"The dishes are hot, be careful not to burn yourself," Alfred gently warned as he put them down on the ones already set.

"Thank you," Vale replied, as Bruce pulled out her chair, inviting her to sit down. "It smells marvelous. I wished I had someone to cook for me," she added, sending Alfred a charming smile.

Bruce exchanged a furtive, amused glance with Alfred. Both knew he seldom cooked nowadays, especially the last four years with the Batman's erratic schedule. Alfred only insisted from time to time that Bruce request something to eat, saying that it was part of being human to feel interested by what one put in one's stomach, and in the following days the freezer was accordingly filled by the caterer service.

"Would you like some wine, Miss?" Alfred asked.

"Oh, no, thank you. Water will be fine."

"Master Wayne?"

Bruce made an effort not to chuckle at Alfred's glance that was clearly saying 'You'd better match the young lady's wisdom.'

"I'll go with water too, Alfred."

"Very well. I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything, sir."

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce replied, patting his old friend's arm to tell him how glad he was for the helping hand. Not putting the good china out to impress Vale would definitely increase his chances of keeping the jerk playboy at bay.

Reinvigorated, Bruce moved around the table and sat down in the facing seat.

"I'll record our interview if you don't mind, Mr. Wayne," Vale said, taking out a small recorder from her bag and putting it on the table between them.

"I don't mind," Bruce replied, taking the water carafe to serve them.

Vale cleared her throat. "Thank you. You truly are a conflicting personality, Mr. Wayne. The media describes you as a very egoistic playboy, only caring about spending his money on luxurious cars and palaces. Though Wall Street doesn't seem to like you very much, not  _selfish_ enough by their standards to be a good businessman, and with your Foundation-"

"That we won't speak about," Bruce cut gently, reminding the  _Globe and Mail_ 's journalist that he was not allowed to discuss of anything linked to his current trials with the media.

"Not my intention," she said with a smile, before continuing her talk as if uninterrupted, "it tends to show that you care about the people working for you, and for the well-being of Gotham's citizens, almost to the point of calling you a philanthropist. So I wondered, Mr. Wayne, in your crystal tower, for what do you wake up every morning, money or people?"

"I'm afraid it's not as simple as that," Bruce replied, disheartened by Vale's choice not to beat around the bush.

"Make it simple," she replied, raising her eyebrows, and shrugging her shoulders slightly.

Bruce bit his lower lip in front of the reusing of his – no,  _Batman's_ words the previous evening, and mentally finished the sentence.  _For my own good. Yeah, I know..._ Obviously, giving advice was always easier done than applying it to oneself in the first place.

"Well... If I want to help people, I have to make money. Is that simple enough?"

 _Damn..._ he hated this play. As charming as Vale was, and despite Lucius' and Alfred's opinion that he had to show a better face to the media, his time would be better spent on digging up his associates' latest business trips. He had to find the traitor.

"So money for you would be just a means to help people?"

Bruce inclined slightly his head. "Among other things, yes it is," he said, annoyed, choosing not to voice his real opinion that money was one way among others to help people. He did not want Vale asking what his other means were. Telling her he dressed like a bat and beat criminals to a pulp would not go over well.

Vale nodded and stared at him for an instant, thoughtful, before saying, "When the taxi left me at the bottom of your building a few minutes ago, I raised my eyes and tried to see if I could see you. Just before you came in, I was looking outside trying to catch a glimpse of the people down there, with no success. In every aspects of your life, you are so far above the common mortal man, Mr. Wayne. No wonder that from below the  _ants_ are looking at you and thinking that you are god."

Bruce's eyes widened. This speech, nobody had made it before. "I didn't know ants were deistic," he replied.

He had spent too much time with businessmen, politics, and journalists to know that he should avoid answering this kind of sloppy question.

"Are you?" she insisted, staring at his eyes so intensely that it made him shudder. She was going to see his bruises...

"What? Deistic?"

_And here you are, playing dumb..._

"No, a god?"

Bruce sighed. This young woman was definitely the stubborn, perseverant kind. "If I were, I would have saved myself a few ordeals in my life, don't you think?"

"Not necessarily. If you look at the Roman antiquity, you'd see that you do have some similarities to Bacchus."

Bruce chuckled at Vale's allusion that he was the god of wine,intoxication, and excesses. Though it was a sad chuckle.

"Let's put this aside and focus back on your business life instead," she suddenly said, maybe catching the furtive glimpse of despair in his eyes. "Since you came back two years ago, Wayne Enterprises is on its way to becoming a conglomerate of hundreds of companies operating in different sectors, from armament systems, telecommunications, renewable energies, medical technologies, even a merchant fleet... but somehow Wall Street welcomed your arrival very coldly. Why so according to you?"

"Simply put, Wall Street doesn't like people who don't share their definition of business, nor its role and place in the world."

"You're making allusion to the fact that your group did not return any dividend last year?"

"That was necessary. I prefer to keep as many jobs as possible in Gotham, and on American soil."

"Why close  _Trenton Inc_ _._ to delocalize the production in Vietnam then? I don't understand."

 _Crap..._ He had had one hell of a long discussion with Lucius on this one.

Belleford, the Director of Telecommunications and one of the oldest board members, had threatened to resign if Bruce continued to use his power to put the badly managed enterprise and its three thousand employees on life support for any longer.

Lucius had convinced Bruce not to provoke Belleford, warning him that if the man resigned, he would face a mutiny. In order to buy the peace in the boardroom, Bruce had to let Trenton Inc. go.

"Because things are seldom simple, Miss Vale. Modernizing this plant was too big an investment. But I assured personally that nobody would be left behind. When it was possible, the workers were allocated to another similar position within the group, offered large compensations, or allowed to retire early with their full pension," he replied, aware that he had to be very careful of his words now. All hope that this was going to be an easy interview had vanished.

Like a methodic journalist, Vale had prepared herself, and it was going to be hard to keep her from leading the dance.

"In the last three years, you acquired four restaurants and two luxury hotels, you extended the area of your domain in Pettsburg, nearly doubling its size, all this for about four hundred million dollars. Modernizing Trenton would have only cost about seven millions. Too big of an investment?"

 _Damn!_ How come had he not seen this coming? Vale was planning her interviews like a game of chess. No matter the path chosen, the goal was always to take down the king at the end.

"Unfortunately, there are some  _rules of engagement_ in the high sphere of the financial world that one can't just ignore."

"So you're just an honest businessman trying to survive among Wall Street's sharks?"

Bruce winced at Vale's bitter tone. "I didn't say that either, but if I bankrupt the group by trying to save everyone, we are talking about three hundred thousand people losing their job in the end, not counting an innumerable number of subcontractors. That's a lot of people, Miss Vale."

"Indeed, but I think you're dramatizing things a little here. A group with a capitalization of nearly two hundred billion can't go bankrupt just because of a single plant. Anyway, Forbes recently released the ranking of the top fifty fortunes in the country. Do you know your position?"

"Somewhere in the top ten."

"The fourth position more exactly. That makes you quite a powerful man, Mr. Wayne. In fact, you are amongst the rare people who can decide to move into politics if he wanted to, and become the next president. So I ask you this question. Would you be a Democrat or a Republican?"

"I have no such ambitions," Bruce chuckled, finding the idea of dealing with a fourth career dreadful.

"Not interested in politics? Why organize a fundraiser for Harvey Dent last year then?" Vale asked, sending him a perplexed glance.

Bruce sighed.

"That I believed in him doesn't mean that I wish to be an active political personality."

"No, I guess not. There are some people indeed who prefer to stay in the shadows of the political backstage."

Bruce frowned as his intuition last evening that Vale's motive to write an article on him was part of her investigation on the corruption circle hovering around the mayor resurfaced.

Damn... Alfred and Lucius wanted him to gain the favor of the press via this interview. They had not foreseen that this could, on the contrary, open the henhouse and let the fox in.

"If it hadn't been for the Batman's vigilance, the Joker would have probably killed him that evening. Did you discover how the security service you had engaged for the evening had failed to keep the sinister killer at bay?"

Bruce tried hard not to shift in his seat and reveal how uncomfortable the discussion was becoming. Vale was speaking of the Batman as if he were a savior, and implying at the same time that Bruce Wayne had trapped Dent, allowing the Joker to sneak in. How could he have put himself in such trouble? At least, he was not afraid that she would blow up his real identity anytime soon. Though it brought him little comfort right now.

"He killed them, Miss Vale, five men, without hesitation. I'm sure you know this, and I already have an appointment with the judge tomorrow morning," he said, not so much feigning to be hurt.

A brief silence fell in the dinner room. Bruce tried to mask it by eating his meal, but he had lost his appetite. Dent's fundraising was still too painful a memory, a harsh blow to his hope to give up the Batman and live his life with Rachel, like a door slammed shut on his face.

Bruce suddenly frowned. Yeah... This would explain his bruises. Alfred or a draft of air had inadvertently slammed a door on him.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne. I'm just a very curious, tiny ant trying to make you out," Vicky Vale said calmly, a discreet smile on her lips in an obvious attempt to relax the atmosphere. "Do you know Bacchus' history?"

Bruce frowned again, unbalanced by her change of tone. Where did Vale want to go with this allusion to the Roman god?

"Enough to know that if your friend Alexander Knox continues his crusade against me, I'll certainly share his fate," Bruce replied, with a wince.

Enraged by Jupiter's infidelity, his wife Juno had killed Bacchus' mother while she was pregnant. Jupiter had saved the fetus by grafting it onto his thigh until Bacchus' birth. Discovering the treachery, Juno had then sent the Titans after the illegitimate child. They had caught the young god, cut him into pieces, and boiled him in a caldron.

Would Bruce's fate be as gruesome?

"Bacchus was saved by Hermes and taken far away from the ire of Juno to be raised in a peaceful place. When he was old enough, he conquered India, and was triumphantly welcomed at his return to the country where he lived an epicurean life. So you see, there are some very troubling resemblance between you and him. You mysteriously left Gotham as a young man after a rather painful day, came back as a grown adult in time to save your family's heritage from slipping between your fingers, and since then you're having fun as if each night would be the last."

Bruce felt his teeth grinding. "Indeed, it's quite disturbing."

"Why you left has already been covered. I'm more interested to know why you came back, or more exactly, how. Like Bacchus, because you had become strong enough to face  _your_ world, or more like the prodigal son, because you were broke?"

"Why don't you ask this question to your friend from the  _Gotham Sun_? His source seems to know my life better than me."

"Maybe, but I'm working for the  _Globe and Mail,_ and I do check the credibility of my sources before writing anything on anyone. In your case, I preferred to talk to you."

Bruce straightened. Had Vale just revealed that Knox's source had also contacted her? This changed the deal. The least clue she could give him now would help him to discover who the traitor was. Having his own agenda now, Bruce decided it was time to take back the control of their little dance.

"It's good to learn that some journalists don't let themselves be manipulated so easily."

"Why do you think Knox is manipulated?"

"Let's say this source pops up at too perfect a time for me not to be highly suspicious. Knox could be used by people who have a certain interest in taking the control of my company out of my hands," he said, hoping that revealing to Vale that he had enemies plotting behind his back could help his case a bit.

"To risk shocking you, whether Knox is being manipulated or not doesn't matter. As long as the  _Gotham Sun_ 's sales are reaching new high peaks with each revelation, I'd say he's doing his job pretty well."

"You would be wonderful working at Wall Street, Miss Vale," Bruce said bitterly.

"That's part of the game, and you know it. As we talk I'm sure your lawyers are pressing charges for muckraking, and the show will go on in the press. Nobody will remember this in a few months anyway."

"I beg to differ."

Bruce sighed, and cast an insisting look at the recorder between their glasses. This was his time to play his cards, and like Alfred and Lucius had said, to reveal how serious his situation was, to at least create enough doubt in Vale's mind that she wouldn't write that he was a thoughtless playboy only interested in money and women.

Vale caught his glance, and turned it off.

"We suspect that someone, another group more exactly, is orchestrating all the affairs around me to weaken Wayne Enterprises and discredit me enough in front of the shareholders for a takeover bid to succeed. This source is using both Knox and the legal system for their own purposes," he said, staring at Vale's eyes for any slight reaction.

"Mr. Wayne, these are serious accusations you're making here. Do you have any proof to-" Vale sighed, straightening noticeably.

"The source's identity will automatically bring proof of what I'm saying."

Under his stare, Vale shifted in her seat. Visibly annoyed, she briefly broke their eye contact.

After a few long and silent seconds, she straightened and raised a cold glance toward him.

"The source's identity will only prove that you made yourself an enemy, Mr. Wayne. For all we know it could be an angry employee you fired and who has decided to avenge himself, or a man from whom you stole a love conquest. And anyway, even if your assumptions were correct and it's indeed a sordid conspiracy against you, revealing a source's identity is against journalism's basic deontology."

"The notion of deontology was never meant to serve as a diplomatic suitcase," he replied a bit harshly, not ready to let go.

Vale sighed and shook her head. "We're moving away from the scope of our meeting, Mr. Wayne."

Though irritated, Bruce nodded. What the hell had he been thinking, hoping to gain Vale's cooperation? Putting her on the defensive would lead nowhere; tailing Knox on the other hand would be more efficient.

Damn... after the board members, now he was thinking about wiretapping a journalist's phone – if scum like Knox could be called a journalist –for his own profit.  _He_ was moving away from his own original scope of serving justice.

Maybe it would be better to end the interview now, Bruce wondered, at a loss about what to do to reverse the situation. Even the Foundation that he had created to improve Gotham's citizens' lives would not work for his favor with this accusation of money laundering. It was just showing how hypocritical he was.

"I'm sorry, you're right," he said, finding it rather difficult to lighten the atmosphere now, "I'm just having some trouble dealing with the fact that someone is trying to destroy me," he said just as Vale's cell phone's discreet melody rang out.

Vale took it out her bag, frowned, and rejected the call.

"Make no mistake, Mr. Wayne," she said, putting her cell phone back into her bag. "You're the only one responsible for destroying your life. You want the tabloids to stop bashing you? Easy: stop feeding them. And maybe it's best for you to be confined to your penthouse. If you stay here, you won't have the _Gotham Sun_ making all sorts of crazy assumptions about how you gained those bruises," she added, picking up her recorder, putting an end to their  _interview_.

"As I'm in a runaway train now, nobody will believe that I was just unfortunate enough to take a door in the face?"

"No indeed. The tabloids will probably think that you got in a drunken brawl, and might even find someone ready to testify about it," she said, standing up, "I'm sorry but I have to take my leave now."

"Very well," he replied, standing up at his turn.

As they reached the nearby private elevator, Vale turned her blue eyes toward him.

"I know it's an obscure word for a Wall Street god like you Mr. Wayne, but the only thing I could suggest to you now is to start showing some mercy for real, not just to buy yourself a public image. As Shakespeare so well said  _no beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity_."

"But I know none, and therefore am no beast," Bruce quoted, bitter. Falling from the frivolous Bacchus to the tyrant Richard III was a disgrace he would have rather avoided. No doubt that in the mind of Vale – and of a majority of people too – the businessmen were among the worst kind of humans on Earth. Worse than the most ferocious carnivore.

The elevators doors opened. Vale stepped in, and pivoted to continue going through the lines with him, "O wonderful, when devils tell the truth!"

"I am no devil, Miss Vale," Bruce replied with sincere eyes.

"When Wall Street's runaway train crashes, Mr. Wayne, we'll see what you'll do to save the ants you and your rich friends packed in the locomotive to cushion your fall."

A cold stone fell into the pit of his stomach as Bruce stared at the door that was sliding shut. He stayed there for a while, troubled that he had pushed Vale to reveal what she knew of the source. The anger and the aggressiveness...

"Master Bruce?"

Jaws clenched, Bruce slowly turned his eyes toward Alfred, who was standing perplexed in the middle of the marble corridor, holding a silver plate with an assortment of cakes and desserts.

"You told me to drop the mask, Alfred, but I'm afraid Rachel was right," he sighed, keeping quiet the rest of his thought, that Batman was no mask.

At a weary pace, Bruce moved back into the reception hall and toward the balcony on which he had found shelter during Dent's fundraiser.

A freezing stream of air lashed his face as he stepped out seconds later. Impassive to the biting of the cold on his feverish body, Bruce walked to the guardrail, and cast a look at the street. From his position, he could see the swarm of cars caught moving slowly in the dense noon traffic. From time to time, a small, dark silhouette tried to cross the flow, causing surprised and angry honks, forcing the drivers - protected from the harsh elements - to show some  _pity_ and let the intrepid pedestrian reach the sidewalk safely.

Bruce swallowed with difficulty, feeling a knot tightening his throat as Ra's Al Ghul appeared in the void in front of him. His last words just before his free fall from the monorail echoed,

" _You have finally learned to do what was necessary."_

" _I won't kill you. But I don't have to save you either."_

As Ra's Al Ghul's ghost faded in the void, and his lack of pity with him, Bruce wondered once more why he had saved the Joker the next year, facing a similar scenario. It would have been so easy to let him share his old mentor's fate, to let him crash at the bottom of the tower. To feel no pity for the monster.

Bruce took a deep breath, and lifted his eyes toward the blue sky, strewn by thin clouds that were stretched until complete disintegration by high altitude and strong winds. The sun filtered like a weakened, wounded giant. But it was here, an immutable force.

Rachel's faith in justice had kept him from turning into a monster, to walk on a vengeful bloodpath.

Rachel's pity was his salvation.


	9. Chapter 9

Startled by the feeling of his head falling forward, Batman's eyes sprang open.

His heart pounding hard in his chest thanks to a powerful discharge of adrenaline, he scanned the street for Vale's silhouette, alarmed that the journalist could have walked out of the Bodies Exhibit during the time he had zoned out.

But when he did not catch sight of her thin silhouette, he sighed and straightened himself with a groan.

_Great! Now I'm breathless while doing nothing..._  he thought, irritated.

Batman yawned, trying to oxygenate his body and ease his heart rate and his pounding headache at the same time. He wished he was in his bed tonight, not babysitting a journalist who had decided to play private detective. No matter how much he hated to admit it, he was sick, and still felt sore from his fall from the building in the Narrows.

As Batman shifted to fight the numbness that had crept into his left leg, he wondered what he was doing here in the first place. Was he truly afraid that Vale would manage to attract the attention of the serial killer, or was he just tailing her for two hours now in hope that she would meet the bastard who fed the tabloids with sordid details about Bruce Wayne's life?

A frustrated sigh escaped his lips. One thing was for sure: he could not stay here any longer without moving.

Batman was about to stand up to stretch his limbs, when a movement downward attracted his sharp eyes.

_It's about time!_  he mentally swore upon recognizing Vale's thin silhouette in her long coat coming out of the building.

Focused, he watched Vale pacing around, looking in both directions on the sidewalk as if she was deciding which way to go. After a few moments, she finally chose to walk up the street toward the park.

_Crap..._  Batman cursed. Even walking on the sidewalk along the barriers that bordered the bony frames of the trees was considered risky by this hour of the night.

All senses on full alert, he stood up to follow her. Too fast. The ground wavered dangerously beneath his boots, forcing him to lean a hand on a nearby ventilation shaft to keep his balance as a veil painfully darkened his vision. Batman forced his eyes to remain open, and took a very deep breath. The intake of icy air in his lungs immediately provoked a fit of coughing, and his right knee hit the roof hard.

_Stand up!_ he berated himself, pushing on his left hand while the other one pulled on the edge of the ventilation shaft.

Batman rushed to the edge of the roof and scanned the street for Vale. Panic flashed in his eyes when he saw a van's taillights fading away, leaving the street deserted behind it.

Heart rate now off the chart, Batman was about to throw himself from the roof to go in pursuit of the van when he suddenly saw Vale emerge from the shadow of a huge tree. She was heading back toward the Bodies Exhibit's entrance at a brisk pace.

A deep sigh of relief escaped Batman's lips.

Hoping that Vale, scared by the van's appearance, had decided to give up her insane plan and walk to the nearby metro station, Batman straightened, and moved back toward his initial position. If she had some survival instinct, she would go home. But when he caught sight of her silhouette turning right into another dark alley, he felt his blood boiling in his veins like lava.

Without hesitation, he ran up the roof, jumped, and glided over the street like a wraith.

As soon as his boots touched the ground, he rolled and unfolded his massive body a hair's breadth from Vale's back. Without warning, he seized her by the waist, cocked his grappling gun toward the exhibit building's roof a hundred feet up, and kidnapped the journalist into the shadows of the night. Batman decided a good fright was just the wakeup call Vale needed. Her cry echoed in the alley and faded in the darkness.

Upon landing Batman released Vale and retreated one step in the shadows of a large ventilation shaft.

Visibly panicked, the young woman stumbled, fell on the ground, tried to make it to her feet, but collapsed again under Batman's cold glance. He knew that her shaking legs would not allow her to stand, nor run any time soon. And that was exactly what he wanted to achieve.

But when he saw her crawling away and getting dangerously close to the edge of the roof, he moved forward to grab her arm.

"Don't move," he growled, wondering if he had not exaggerated the effect a bit.

Vale struggled for a brief second, punching him despite his superior size and armor, before stopping.

"Thank God it's you!" she sighed, raising a hand to her head. Batman could hear the sound of her erratic breathing. "Why the hell did you scare me like that?" she asked, freeing her arm from his grasp.

"To show you that your plan will only get you killed."

"For God's sake, I told you already that it was a risk I was willing to take."

"I am not. Not under these conditions," he growled, trying to keep his nerves under control.

"Okay... I admit tonight lacked some coordinated preparation, but I'm sure it's still- Hey! What are you doing?"

Losing his patience, Batman gripped the journalist by the arm, and dragged her to the edge of the roof.

"Hold me tight," he warned, grabbing her by the waist and jumping off the roof without more warning.

They landed heavily on the roadway a few seconds later, just in front of a taxi that skidded to a halt with a furious honk.

Teeth clenched by the shooting pain in his right ankle, Batman took Vale by the arm, opened the rear passenger door, and hustled her inside, not bothering to check if a client was already sitting in the back of the taxi

"I'm no babysitter, Miss Vale," he growled before slamming the door shut.

As Batman raised his eyes, he saw the taxi driver's mouth and eyes were wide with stupefaction.

"You take this young lady back to her home or you'll answer to me, understood?"

"Sí, señor Batman, sí!" the poor guy stammered before hastily driving away.

Straight away, Batman took out his grappling gun, secured the iron strand to his belt, and disappeared from the street as fast as he had appeared.

Slightly breathless by the sudden peak of action, Batman squatted in the darkness of the roof, relieved. He waited a few moments to catch his breath and to make certain that the taxi was driving away. Then, he straightened himself, and, listening to the noises of the city for police sirens converging toward him, he moved back toward the building behind which he had hidden the Batpod.

He was halfway to the Batpod when his cell phone vibrated.

Batman tensed up at Gordon's meeting request, under the Midtown bridge in downtown Gotham.

At least, as it was one of the Commissioner's preferred clandestine spot in the city – a windy and snow covered bicycle trail, isolated from roads and deserted this time of year - it was unlikely that another murder had just been committed. Most likely, his old ally had some important news about the mysterious helicopters, or the sniper.

About twenty minutes later, Batman veered from the street and entered the park. The large wheels of his bike allowed him to use a trail without too much trouble, though at fifty yards from the meeting point, he stopped and left the Batpod in the shadows behind a small bush, and carefully walked the rest of the distance through the forest.

When he reached the winding trail bordering the ocean, he stopped briefly and searched for the Commissioner's lonely form. Arms wrapped around himself, Gordon was pacing in front of the bridge's concrete pillar.

"What news?" Batman asked, stepping out of the forest.

Gordon pivoted on his heels to face him. "How you manage to be silent whatever the ground amazes me," he said, smoke coming out of his mouth as he spoke.

"Practice." Batman smirked.

"Well, I won't ask you what school provides this kind of  _practice_ ," the Commissioner replied, before taking a deep breath and briefly looking away.

Batman frowned as he watched Gordon, suddenly feeling ill at ease. A feeling that was expected as it was the first time they met without the protection of anonymity.

"I called you because I have a problem."

" _We_  have a problem," Batman corrected, swallowing a lump upon hearing more trouble coming his way.

Gordon nodded. "The night I found you in the Narrows, Montoya wanted me to check on something on the crime scene that she had noticed the previous night when she... well, I'll spare you the details, she thought that one of my informers could have been present on the crime scene, and wanted me to confirm it."

"A witness?" Batman asked, eyes widening and thrill rising in his guts at the thought that someone could have seen the killer and maybe be in a position to identify him, or at least to make an identikit image of him. This was certainly the best news he had heard for some time. Why had Gordon considered this as more trouble?

"I tried to join him for the last two days, searched the hovels where he used to live, the bars where he hangs around, without success. Until tonight."

Batman shuddered. The lack of victorious gleam in Gordon's glance and tone told him nothing good, killing the little optimism that had sprung in his veins.

As he took a deep breath, the cold air he inhaled burnt his lungs and triggered a fit of cough that he had some trouble stopping.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the commissioner taking a step toward him, and quickly raised a hand to stop him. Batman took a shallow, raspy breath and straightened, relieved that Gordon did not say anything. Adding one more mother hen around him would only drive him crazy.

"Dead?" he asked when his cough ended.

"Not yet, and it's why I wanted to talk to you," the commissioner sighed, obviously annoyed. "He was arrested tonight, and asked for me, but by the time I made it to MCU the duty officer – a man I have reason to believe works for the Mob- had transferred him to the county."

"What?"

"If I make too much fuss, I'm painting a big, red bull's-eye on my informer's face. If I don't, I doubt he will be alive tomorrow. A few minutes ago, Montoya called to warn me that the man had been placed in the infirmary for the night because they couldn't find a cell. The perfect place for-"

"A murder."

Batman blew a long sigh. He could already imagine the scenario in his mind. An inmate would fall ill during the night, ask to go to the infirmary, and once there, would eliminate the informer during his sleep.

Damn... he saw only one way to make certain Gordon's informer would survive his night in jail, and he understood why Gordon was so uneasy now. The informer needed a bodyguard.

Finally, it seemed he was condemned to babysit tonight, he thought, bitter.

"Can you free him first thing tomorrow morning?" Batman asked, certain that Gordon was catching the double request.

Fear flashed in Gordon's eyes as he replied, "I'll do all in my power and even more."

"Stand ready," he growled before retracting in the shadows.

By the time he reached the Batpod, Batman had a lump in his throat and a knot in his guts. A knot so tight that he was sure it would never go away.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Less than forty minutes after talking to the commissioner, Bruce walked out of his bedroom in haste, and climbed down the stairs. Attached to his right leg now was the working ankle monitor that would give the alert in a few minutes when he'll walk away from his penthouse.

As Bruce strode across the hall toward the elevator, the sound of the television made him halt.

A crooked grin appeared on his face as he glanced over his shoulder toward the lounge. Though his smile had a twinge of sadness. Alfred was obviously not as young as he used to be, not if he needed the TV that loud.

Bruce checked his watch and cursed. Though on a tight schedule, he could not let a call in the middle of the night wake up his old friend to tell him of his present predicament.

As he passed by the glass-and-brick sculptured wall, Bruce paused again, and chuckled silently at the sight of Alfred sleeping on the sofa, mouth open. Quickly, he retrieved a piece of paper from the desk, wrote a few words, though he carefully avoided confessing any compromising intel. With a mischievous gleam in his eye, he folded the sheet in two and placed it on Alfred's stomach.

Bruce was turning away when a silver gleam on his friend's ankle attracted his gaze. Curious, he moved around the sofa to take a closer look, and deafened a short appreciative whistle at the sight of a PPK 9mm in an ankle holster.

The image of Alfred dressed in camouflage fatigues in the wild forests of Burma, hunting a precious stones burglar rose in front of his eyes, and Bruce wondered once more what his friend had been doing in an Asian nation ruled by harsher and harsher dictatorships since the early sixties. Maybe Alfred had worked in the former British colony during the relatively stable decade after its independence and left when the country had fallen apart. Anyway, the question that most troubled Bruce was how Alfred could have managed such a drastic change of career and become a butler. And above all, why Thomas Wayne would have employed an ex-military man. Certainly, he would have been aware of Alfred's special field of expertise.

Unless there was more to his old friend's responsibilities than just to ensure the perfect functioning of his billionaire life.

As the family butler, Alfred occupied a central position, had a view on everything and everyone.

_On everyone... and on me especially..._

For all he remembered, Alfred had always kept a close eye on him. With Rachel, they had to resort to cunning evasion strategies each time they wanted to sneak out in the gardens unseen, or  _steal_ ice cream or condensed milk. But it seemed that Alfred had mapped all possible hiding places on the manor ground. Their escapades never lasted long.

Bruce chuckled, feeling nostalgia seizing him.

The old man shifted a bit, and Bruce called himself back to the present. Though when he moved away, his eyes were sparkling with the thrill a child would feel upon discovering a treasure. Maybe he was not the only one to maintain a secret identity, and something told him that Alfred had never truly changed careers.

He was still on a mission.

As he stepped into the elevator's cabin and pushed the button for the lobby, Bruce felt strangely relaxed considering that he was about to be sent to jail. He too had a mission. Before the end of the night, he would obtain crucial intel to arrest the serial killer.

A few minutes later, Bruce raised the collar of his coat, and walked out in the cold night. As he crossed the deserted street at a brisk pace, he wondered if he would be able to reach the ocean mall before a police patrol would block his way.

Liking the challenge, Bruce set his gaze on the multicolored lights reflecting on the wet sidewalks, and listened to the sounds of the streets, searching for police sirens.

Cars' tires screeched on the slippery roadway. The loud roar of a bus coming toward him made the ground vibrate under his feet, and the vehicle disturbed the steam coming out of a manhole in front of Bruce as it passed him. The siren of an ambulance sounded and faded, replaced by the siren and honks of a fire truck in the distance.

When exactly, he did not notice, but slowly, all the sounds of the city vanished. His feverish brain relegated them in background one by one while his mind planned, anticipated his next moves, preparing himself to see the prison's bars closing on him. Once more.

A stronger gust of wind lashed Bruce's face and caused him to shiver.

Thinking that he had won his bet and reached the ocean before the police reached him, Bruce raised his eyes with a victorious gleam. But as he caught sight of the dark street stretching in front of him, his heart-rate spiked. Bruce stopped dead in his tracks.

Why had he veered off his way at such a point?

Bruce was staring at the ground at his feet, the uneven asphalt, and felt a painful lump forming in his throat. This was the place where his suffering had been branded in his flesh like a common beast.

Why had his steps had led him here? Why? Why had he never realized that his penthouse was so close to the opera?

The beam of a flashlight suddenly blinded Bruce.

"Mr. Wayne?" a firm voice asked in front of him.

Bruce raised a hand over his eyes, and blinked to recover his sight. Heart racing, he squinted and saw a shadow moving toward him. Troubled, his hands clenched into fists.

"Are you Mr. Bruce Wayne, sir?"

"Yes, I am," he replied, realizing that the insistent but polite tone was the one of a police officer.

"You are under home restriction, sir. You should not be here. I'm afraid I have to arrest you and bring you to the nearest police station."

Bruce exhaled slowly to ease his tension and nodded.

"Please, put your hands in front of you, sir."

"Is that necessary, officer? I won't resist."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne, but this is procedure."

He was being handcuffed when the sound of tires screeching echoed somewhere behind him. Bruce glanced above his shoulder and saw with relief Gordon stepping out of the car. Another fit of coughing seized him, but this time, Bruce did little to control it.

"You should be in your bed, Mr. Wayne," Gordon said, his tone slightly condescending. "I'm taking care of him personally, officer. You can go and continue your watch."

The young cop nodded, and after glancing a last time at Bruce, he moved away without questioning.

"Please follow me, Mr. Wayne," the Commissioner asked.

Throat burning, Bruce turned his eyes toward him and frowned. "Without reading me my rights, Commissioner?" he asked, not budging.

"For a strange reason, duplicating this formality is not necessary, Mr. Wayne."

"Oh my... I forgot this..." Bruce muttered, taking a sheepish look.

"You forgot?" the Commissioner repeated in disbelief before grabbing Bruce's arm and guiding him toward his car. "Have you been drinking tonight or taken any drug that could have caused you to  _forget_?"

"Er... Tylenol?" Bruce replied, aware that the police officer was still close enough to overhear.

Gordon shook his head and sighed. "I'm talking about illicit substances, Mr. Wayne. Never mind, don't answer to this without a lawyer by your side. I'll ask for a full toxicological as soon as we reach the county jail anyway."

Bruce's eyes widened at the statement. "Er... Commissioner! Surely this is not necessary to-"

"I'm afraid it's procedure as Judge Harris will want to know if anything could have impaired your judgment, and caused this  _amnesia_."

Despite the unpleasant and unexpected examination, Bruce bit his lips so he wouldn't chuckle. After all, they would only find Alfred's kill or cure treatment running through his veins. That would certainly plead in his favor in a few hours.

As soon as the police patrol's rear lights disappeared around the opera's corner, Gordon removed his handcuffs and opened the front passenger door. Relieved, Bruce dived into the cabin and closed the door.

Sheltered from the cold, Bruce propped his elbow against the window and rested his pounding head in his hand.

"Are you all right?" Gordon asked.

"This is all very relative," Bruce muttered, staring at the opera house in the side mirror. That his steps had unconsciously taken him here was shaking him to the core.

Bruce heard Gordon sighing at his elusive answer, and he cursed himself for being so distant.

After a few seconds during which he watched the opera shrinking, he turned his eyes toward his friend and conceded, "I've been better."

The Commissioner briefly glanced at him and nodded.

"I've chosen not to wake up the judge and warn him about your little escapade. I'm taking on the decision to send you to the county jail."

"Why?" Bruce asked, relieved to be snatched from the ghosts of his past.

"Judge Harris was a close collaborator and friend of Judge Surillo. Knowing that he's the one to oversee your case causes me some worry. However, he's an arrogant son of the bitch and doesn't like when people make decisions without him. It should work in your favor tomorrow morning."

Bruce frowned and glanced worriedly at the Commissioner. "Don't you risk a disciplinary measure?"

"If only they would fire me," Gordon smirked, sending him a quick glance.

Bruce chuckled softly. As always, Gordon's sarcasms soothed his nerves, and he needed it right now. Damn... mob assassins, a humiliated competitor, and now a vengeful anti-mafia judge was waiting around the corner to take him down. How many fights could he face?

Silence installed itself between both men, and as the lightened shops and buildings unfolded behind the window, the tension became palpable. Gordon turned right at a junction, and the bridge leading to the Narrows appeared through the windshield.

Well... one fight at a time. Tonight, he had to save a man who could identify the serial killer.

Five minutes later, the county jail's front entrance grid slid opened in front of the front bumper, and Gordon engaged his car on a service road lightened like in broad day light by powerful projectors at the end of which the massive and oblong shadow of the administrative building stood.

Gordon turned right at a junction toward the admission office, and stopped at another checkpoint to submit again to an ID check. The gate opened. Gordon released the brake and accelerated, only to stop definitively a hundred feet farther.

Jaws clenched, the two men exchanged a tense glance.

_Are you sure you wanna do this?_

Catching the unspoken question in Gordon's eyes, Bruce stretched his hands in front of him, wrists pressed one against the other. It was too late to turn back now.

Without a word, Gordon took the handcuffs out of his vest pocket, and locked them back on his wrists with a slight metallic snap.

Bruce took a deep breath, and turned to open his door alone. Gordon joined him in the coldness of the night, and guided him toward a double door topped by a lightened panel with  _admission_ written on it in capital letters. The door opened and a prison officer came to meet them.

Flanked by the Commissioner and the officer, Bruce came in, and was directed toward a desk on his left. The officer sitting behind the protection glass panel stood up, and slid a plastic box through an opening in front of him.

"Empty your pockets in this. Wallet, keys, watch, rings, money... Remove your belt and shoes," the officer said with the detached tone of one used to repeat the same instructions all day long.

Without a word, Bruce complied.

The officer took his shoes, cast an appreciative glance at them, and disappeared in an adjacent room. A few seconds later, he came back with an orange prisoner outfit and tennis shoes without lace. "Go in there to change."

As the prison officer on his side moved away to unlock the door behind them, Bruce stared at the long, forbidding corridor and the succession of gates that lead further into the prison's entrails.

At least, unlike the Chinese jail, the county was heated.


	11. Chapter 11

The steady sound of drops falling in a metallic bucket near his head slowly stirred Bruce back to his senses. Or was it the nauseating stench of humidity and grime that grazed his throat and made him cough? Maybe both. Though what made his eyes fly open was a voice tainted with a familiar accent.

"Do you feel better?" the voice asked.

Bruce turned on his side to see who just talked to him and blinked to clear his vision until he saw the wrinkled face and long grey hair of the old Tibetan who had shared his cell in the Chinese jail.

 _Could this man be Gordon's informant?_ Bruce wondered, feeling suddenly disoriented.

But somehow, he knew that the man was not and shook the idea away.

"How do you feel?" the old Tibetan asked, staring at him with his piercing eyes.

"This is a very relative question..." Bruce muttered, the gaze attracted by the steady drop of rain that was falling in the bucket. Frowning, he glanced upward. The ceiling was a rusted, corrugated sheet of metal against which the rain made a deafening racket.

 _What the hell?_ Bruce wondered, troubled to recognize the filthy interior of the dilapidated Chinese prison in which he had found himself years ago.  _What was he doing here?_

"A lot of things are relative," the Tibetan said, plunging a wooden cup in the bucket and filling it with water. "We are lucky. Now we can drink and wash," he added, handing Bruce the cup.

Bruce stared at the water, wondering what to do. Quenching his thirst or pouring the cold liquid on his head to shake him out of this weird dream? Because this had to be a dream. He could not possibly be back here.

Feeling intrigued, Bruce nodded his gratitude to the Tibetan and sat down on the mattress to take a sip. "What are you doing here?" he asked, not sure of the real sense of his own question. The man had never been a part of his nightmares until now.

The man sat on the floor, obviously tired, and sighed, "I'm waiting for my time to come. Like you."

"Like me? Why?" Bruce frowned, pleased to notice that the old Tibetan had not changed. He still spoke in short, enigmatic sentences, most of them being pragmatic thoughts that did not lack a certain wisdom, and that Bruce appreciated.

"Don't you remember why you were imprisoned?"

"I remember a lot of things," Bruce replied, glancing at the filthy cell.

It was empty, as were the other adjacent ones. The opened door troubled him at first but then he remembered that on rainy days the inmates were allowed to wander in the corridors and gather in the common room to play dice and other games. According to the smell of grime, humidity, and sweat, it was raining for ten days at least. The air was nauseating, unbreathable. "For instance, I remember leaving this stinking prison, free," he said, standing up slowly. He needed to get the blood flowing in his legs again.

"A dream shared by many souls here, and achieved only by those setting foot on the path toward the afterlife. Your body almost succeeded in gaining freedom, but your soul is one of a warrior and fought to keep its place on earth."

"What?" Bruce asked, not sure he understood the last statement.

"Before your fight against the Mongol, you had a deep laceration in the shoulder. The wound became infected and you suffered a great fever with hallucinations. Many thought you were going to die."

Bruce craned his neck to look at his shoulder and felt his heart rate increasing when it caused him pain.

"No..." he whispered, turning his back to the Tibetan to grab the bars of the jail. He rested his forehead on the cold metal, closed his eyes, and took a breath. "I was freed the morning after the day of the fight. Three years have passed since."

"Time passes strangely when one finds himself in the darkness of solitary confinement. Days look like months, months look like years."

Bruce shook his head. "No. This is not reality."

The Tibetan extended his hand above the bucket, so that the drops of water burst in his palm. "This rain feels very real to me."

"You're just a figment of my imagination. A ghost from my past. I'm just wandering another nightmare," Bruce said, shaken to feel the cold contact of the rough bars so solid under his palms.

The memory of the dark hole where the guards had thrown him after his fight against the Mongol resurfaced, freezing and damp.

Like a ghost, Ducard's pale face stepped out of the darkness and called him by his name, like a devil. The man had been hiding inside the cell, waiting for him. How was this possible? How could Ra's Al Ghul have anticipated that Bruce would be involved in a brawl that cold morning? Or had he been a hallucination, as the Tibetan suggested?

"Dream or nightmare? Reality or imagination? This is very relative matter."

"I don't believe you," Bruce said, his voice low.

This could not be true. This was not real and he was going to wake up in a moment, bathed in sweat in his bed, or in his bunker, sank over his desk near the Batpod, maybe still in Batman's armor. He had left the prison long ago to become a vigilante hunting down criminals at night, cleaning his home-city from the scum that terrorized its citizens, tying Mob bosses to projector lights, foiling the League of Shadows' plans to eradicate Gotham with a toxin that pushed people to kill one another, saw his father's manor burnt to the ground and Rachel murdered by a psychopathic clown, he... he...

_I am Batman!_

As the name of his alter-ego echoed in his mind, doubt rose, rattling his self-confidence. In the mirror of his soul, the dark, and threatening shadow of the Dark Knight shattered into a thousand pieces.

No... it was not possible. One cannot hallucinate three years of life in what...

"How long did I stay in lock-up according to you?" he asked. His voice was now but a whisper.

"Three weeks."

 _Three weeks for three years?_ Bruce refused himself to bring an answer.

Shouts suddenly echoed above the racket of the rain on the roof. The old Tibetan rose from the floor, and walked out of the cell, saying, "Come."

"Another brawl?" Bruce asked, as he stepped into the corridor circling around the common room, one level up.

Bruce approached the guardrail and frowned. Below, the wooden benches and tables that used to be on the middle had been tossed aside and two silhouettes, bare-chested, were fighting in their place.

"That dog's still able to fight?" Bruce asked, recognizing the Mongol as one of the fighters. The other, a muscular but shorter man, he did not know. A new inmate he guessed, to whom the Mongol wanted to prove that he was the devil of the place.

"He likes it."

Bruce groaned, feeling a deep loathing for the Mongol, and pity for the others who formed a circle around the scene of the fight, sitting or standing on the tables and benches. Fists slicing the air above their heads, they were shouting encouragements to kill.

"He'll challenge you again."

As the old Tibetan pronounced these words, the Mongol wedged his opponent's neck under the crook of his armpit and clenched his powerful biceps to strangle the man. Like a puppet, he dragged his victim in front of the crowd, shouting something that Bruce did not understand. Not that he wished to anyway. The savage expression on the Mongol's face made him look like a tiger playing with his prey before devouring it.

"He wants to regain what he lost because of you," the Tibetan said, "His place and his honor."

At that moment, the Mongol raised his head toward Bruce and their eyes met. A ferocious smile appeared on the Mongol's face. A second later, he broke the man's neck and let the body collapse on the ground.

"Dogs have no honor, and his place is in hell," Bruce replied, disgusted by the savagery of the man and by the crowd's cheerful cries at the obnoxious victory.

Enraged, Bruce climbed down the nearby stairs and fought his way to the pit between men too preoccupied with exchanging blood money to pay attention to him. But suddenly, a wave seemed to travel through the crowd like a whistling murmur, and silence fell like the blade of an executioner. Dozens of dumbfounded gazes turned toward Bruce.

"Your time has come," the Tibetan whispered behind Bruce's shoulder, as the other inmates stepped away to free a path between Bruce and the Mongol.

Bruce nodded. "Yeah. It's time to send that beast where it belongs," Bruce muttered, determined to beat the Mongol once and for all.

"It's time to do what you came for," the Tibetan replied just as the crowd closed on Bruce like a curtain.

* * *

Bruce's eyes sprung open as he jerked into a sitting position.

Breathless and sweating, he stared, disoriented, at the privacy curtains surrounding his bed on his left and front while shimmering drops of icy rain lashed a window blocked with thick bars on his right.

A stifled cry sounded on his left.

Before he knew what he was doing, Bruce leaped to his feet and shoved the unfamiliar curtains out of the way, bursting the final vestiges of his dream.

Three beds down, a man with a solid build was pressing a pillow on Gordon's informer's face, who tried to kick his aggressor away without much success.

Bruce used the first bed as a springboard and threw himself on the big guy, knocking him off his victim and sending him crashing on the ground.

The man cushioned Bruce's landing, but caught in the momentum, Bruce slipped below the next bed, and hurt his forehead on the metallic frame. Pain exploded, and he shook his head to will a dizziness away. By the time he extirpated himself on the other side, the big guy was leaning a hand on the mattress to stand up.

Bruce clenched his teeth, and sprung from beneath the bed. He struck his opponent on the head with a powerful side kick.

Cartilage broke with a dry snap, and blood spurted.

Without a sound, Bruce landed, retreated a step on the space between the two rows of beds and placed himself on guard, ready to attack again.

One knee on the ground, the man sent to kill Gordon's informant spit blood, and shot Bruce a hateful glance.

With a groan, he stood up and charged Bruce like an enraged bull.

Bruce sighed. Shaking his head, he stepped aside just as the man was on him, grabbed the brute by the collar and used his velocity to project him further away, though not without sliding a leg on the man's way.

The impact of the big guy's head on the facing wall shook the ground, and Bruce winced at the racket. If this did not attract guards to the infirmary, then what would?

Keeping an eye on the pathetic body collapsed on the ground, Bruce walked back toward Gordon's informant to ensure that he was fine when the door burst opened.

"Freeze!" a prison officer barked, switching the lights on.

Bruce squinted at the sudden change of luminosity, and raised his hands above his head, aware that the order was directed to him as he was the only one up and about in the room. The last thing he needed to complete this bloody night was to receive a Taser discharge!

"Turn away and walk slowly to the wall!" the officer ordered while rapid steps echoed in the corridor.

"What the hell happened here?" asked a voice that Bruce recognized as belonging to the doc who had examined him at his arrival at the infirmary a few hours earlier.

"The big guy over there attem- ouch!" Bruce tried to explain as the prison guard roughly twisted his left arm behind his back, "-pted to kill this one in his sleep," he finished, wincing in pain as he was handcuffed.

Why did being the only one on his feet automatically make him the bad guy of the affair? Bruce wondered as his mind was yanked back to the Chinese prison when he had found himself the only one amongst six others standing up after the fight in the muddy courtyard.

" _You! In lock-up... for protection!" a Chinese guard had ordered him._

" _I don't need protection!"_ he had barked.

" _Protection for them!"_

Bruce shuddered. Was tonight's fight going to earn him another stay in a lock-up cell?

But unlike the Chinese guard, this prison officer let go of Bruce's arm and, with a mocking laugh, he moved away toward the big guy who was moaning on the ground. "Found your match, Sanchez?"

Bruce took a deep breath and turned his gaze on the unconscious informer. The doc was calling him and slapping his cheeks to stir him back to his senses. Relieved to see no emergency revival technique applied on the man, Bruce sighed deeply, sat down on the spot, and closed his eyes. The rush of adrenaline was fading, and his forehead was pounding painfully.

"Are you all right, son?"

Bruce raised his eyes and saw the doc staring at him with a genuine worry.

Despite his exhaustion, Bruce managed a faint smile, and replied, "This is all very relative, doc..."


	12. Chapter 12

Hell was grey, cold and humid.

In the early morning, a dense, impenetrable mist swallowed Gotham's highest roofs while the trees and the power lines bent under the weight of ice. Despite the nightly efforts of the city workers to spread salt on the roads, spun-out vehicles and head-on collisions numbered in the dozens before rush hour even began.

Nearly two hours after having left the county jail for what should have been a thirty minutes drive, the Prince of Gotham was escorted, handcuffed, through a freshly painted corridor on the second floor of the courthouse's new wing. As they turned right, the police officer on Bruce's left grabbed his arm, and said, "Sit down here. I'm going to see if the judge's ready to see you."

While the officer knocked on a door that did not look particularly special, Bruce sat down on the metallic chair, and closed his eyes.

"Ah... must be caught in the traffic," the officer moaned, moving back toward Bruce when he received no answer.

"I'm fed up with this ice and crap," his colleague sighed.

"Forecast said we'll get snow tonight," the other replied absently.

Bruce exhaled slowly. For him, the weather was perfect. No journalist had been waiting for him in front of the Justice Court, and he was getting extra sleep.

_Heaven is grey, cold and humid..._

Bruce was biting his lips to suppress a satisfied smile when steps reverberated, coming fast toward him.

_Alas... too good to be true..._  he sighed, bitter, before raising a perplexed glance toward the little man who was running toward them, finding him a bit young and frailed to be a judge.

"Officer? Sorry! You got the wrong door number!"

"What?" the police officer who had knocked on the door exclaimed.

"Sorry, with this new wing and all the renovations, it's a real mess here," the clerk replied, "Follow me, please."

Not hiding his exasperation, Bruce sighed and stood up. Administration plus organization equaled a mad house.

A few minutes later, Bruce finally arrived at destination, and was welcomed in front of the judge's office by Harold Flettmann, Wayne's family lawyer since his grand-parents.

"Good morning, Mr. Wayne," the short and corpulent old man said, before leading him inside a room filled by so many file cabinets that, despite its reasonable size, seemed cramped. "Let me speak for you and everything will be fine," the lawyer added, a slightly crooked smile on his face as he patted Bruce's shoulder.

"Thank you," Bruce replied, keeping his voice low in the office's hushed atmosphere. A friendly presence was all he needed.

"There is no reason to keep my client handcuffed, your Honor," Flettmann claimed as Bruce stopped in front of the desk.

At a nod from the judge, one of the police officers moved to free Bruce's hands just as a sudden fit of coughing seized him. Hands grabbed his arms and guided him toward a nearby chair. Too focused on controlling his burning lungs, Bruce let himself fall into the chair. He had not taken the antibiotics and painkillers the prison's doc prescribed him before leaving this morning, not liking the drowsiness they usually caused, but he might not have a choice anymore.

There was a small agitation around him, and a few seconds later, a glass of water appeared within his line of vision, blurry with tears of pain.

Noticing that his hands were free, Bruce took it and drank carefully.

"Thank you..." he whispered, the voice rasp, as he raised his eyes and noticed that the judge was looking at him with a complex mix of emotions on his face.

_Annoyance. Irritation. Condescendence. What else?_

"I hope you understand the gravity of your situation, Mr. Wayne," the judge finally said.

Bruce suppressed a sigh.

_Situations, your Honor, situations. If t here was only one, it wouldn't be fun..._

"I do, your Honor," he replied, silencing his bitterness.

"If I may, your Honor," intervened Flettmann, "It is quite obvious that Mr. Wayne is sick. According to the physician who examined him just after his admission to the County, an admission that does not bear your signature by the way, my client's high fever last night probably affected his judgment when he chose to go for a refreshing walk."

The Judge averted his eyes from Bruce to cast a doubtful glance toward the old lawyer.

"I do have the report under my eyes, Mr. Flettmann, and it mentions a fever of one hundred and one point nine. A bit low to suffer hallucinations, if I may," he said with a bitter tone before turning back his piercing eyes on Bruce. "You di d know that you were under home restriction, am I wrong, Mr. Wayne?"

"No, your Honor. I... I mean you're not wrong. You're right..." Bruce replied, stumbling on his words.

"Then, you admit deliberately breaking from detention."

This was not a question, and Bruce swallowed a painful lump. The judge's words echoed as clearly as the clapping of a prison lock.

As Bruce was about to reply, Flettmann put a hand on his arm to stop him.

"Your Honor," the lawyer said, "According to the police report, at least forty minutes passed between the moment Mr. Wayne walked out of his penthouse and the time he was arrested. Another hour elapsed before his admission to the county jail and the moment he was seen by a nurse and his temperature taken. As stated by the duty physician, Mr. Wayne's fever was definitively higher when he chose to wander outside. I have a copy of the report with me, if you need."

The judge sighed heavily and shook his h ead, obviously unhappy.

"According to the law, Mr. Wayne, I should send you back to county until the end of the preliminary investigation," he was saying when Bruce felt his cell phone vibrating. The moment being too critical, Bruce discreetly rejected the call.

"According to the law," Flettmann intervened, "You can reserve your judgment in case of mitigating circumstances, and these fall under the definition. Your Honor, everybody in this room knows the signification of the place where my client was arrested. This walk was not a run away. It was a pilgrimage. A sad one, triggered by the combination of being unfairly accused, trapped in his own home and a high fever."

Bruce swallowed a lump, and shifted on his seat, uneasy by the choice of strategy. If Flettmann continued with this line, he would sleep in Arkham tonight for a full psychiatric evaluation.

_They_  would never let him go.

While the image of a white, padded cell rose into Bruce's mind, Flettmann pursued his speech.

"There is no reason to believe that my client is a threat to the public's safety, and on this matter, you and me know very well that the jail officers will never be able to ensure Mr. Wayne's safety after what happened last night in the infirmary."

The judge sighed, and crossed his hands in front of him when Bruce's Blackberry buzzed again. Annoyed, Bruce shut it down. Now was really not the time. The judge was pondering his fate. But a few seconds later, Flettmann's cell phone buzzed. The lawyer stood up and walked out of the office to take the call. An instant later, he came back and handed him the device.

"Mr. Fox for you, Mr. Wayne. A work-related emergency."

Bruce felt all blood leaving his face at once, while his heart skipped a beat. Swallowing a lump, he looked at the Judge and when this one indicated him with a nod of the chin that he authorized the call, he stood up and retreated a few steps. Work related or not, emergency was not a word Lucius pronounced without thinking twice. Especia lly right now.

For the next two minutes, Bruce nervously paced around, struggling not to clench his hands into fists and punch a wall or a file cabinet. "Thank you, Lucius. Keep me updated," he finally said, before giving back his phone to Flettmann with a polite nod.

The tension in the room was thick, and he felt the silent and grave looks of the other persons on his back. They were all waiting for an explanation.

Taking a deep breath, Bruce walked back to his seat, slowly sat down, and ran a hand through his hair.

"Hickochin, a Chinese conglomerate just launched a takeover bid on Wayne Enterprises. An extraordinary board meeting is summoned at our headquarters in thirty minutes," he announced, before burying his head between his hands to massage his eyes, and force his mind not to yield to a rising panic.

_What have I done?_ he wondered.

Was Gordon's informer's life more import ant than the thousands of jobs that would disappear in the massive reorganization caused by a forced fusion if he lost control of his family heritage? One individual's life againsst his heritage? Was it worth?

And what about Gotham's citizens? Without the Batman's support, would the police be able to arrest Freeze before he killed again?

Bruce shook his head, feeling at a loss as he took the measure of all the consequences if the judge decided to keep him in jail, dashing all possibility of standing up and fighting for his company.

_Stand up and fight, yeah. Whatever the domain, you're a fighter. And fighters don't give up, do they?  
_

Bruce took a deep breath and raised his head to look at the judge.

"I can't say anything to justify why I wandered outside of my penthouse yesterday evening. I was sick, right, but I know it's no excuse, your Honor," he said, giving a plain sincere look to the magistrate, "But I do need to go to my office as soon as possible, sir. The future of-"

Looking most displeased, Judge Harris lifted a hand to stop him.

"A real pain in the ass you are, Mr. Wayne," the man groused before adding, "I hereby confirm your home detention. I also allow you to go to your downtown offices for business obligations only and under police escort. But put another toe out of the line again, and you'll have to explain to the County's inmates how you sent a four-hundred-pound killer to the ground despite your bad cold. Am I clear enough?"

Bruce winced, before standing up and nodding, "Crystal clear, your Honor. Thank you."

He was half way to the door when the judge's voice reverberated once more. "And Mr. Wayne?"

"Yes, your Honor?" Bruce asked, stopping dead in his track to look back, feeling a bit nervous.

"The last thing our country needs is to see one of its jewels falling into strangers' hands. You'd better do everything in your power to avoid this."

"Yes, sir," he said, glad of the magistrate's patriotism.

Five minutes later, Bruce walked out of the justice court under police escort, and was assaulted by an explosion of flashes. On the wide stairs and down on the sidewalk, a large crowd of journalists a nd TV reporters had gathered, finally defying the dreadful weather in order to capture his image and send it on all media all over the world.

On top of the steps, Bruce quickly glanced at the street, searching for Vale's face, not really knowing if he wished to see her or not among her colleagues. But the only face he recognized was the one of the  _Sun_ 's reporters. Ten yards away on his right with his camera operator, Knox was shouting something Bruce could not make it out.

As he moved on while continuing to scan the faces, Bruce stopped briefly. The arrival of a police patrol thirty yards away had just caused a shift in the crowd and let appear a straight silhouette in a formal black, long coat waiting next to an elegant Rolls-Royce.

_Alfred._

Bruce smiled. Was his friend so confident that he would be released? Though knowing him, the old man had probably preferred to take the risk to drive back alone than to let him take a taxi.

Grateful for Alfred's loyalty, Bruce fought his way with his police escort, unflappable, gaze on the salt covered ground. And it was with a deep relief that he dived into the light cream leather cabin a moment later, Alfred closing the door fast behind him.

"You'll find painkillers in the bar, Master Bruce, along with a thermos of coffee and pancakes," the old butler said once installed in the driver's seat.

Bruce raised his eyes, and smiled. "Thank you, Alfred. What would I do without you?"

"I prefer to leave the question unanswered, sir," the old man replied, wasting no time and merging into traffic.

Bruce chuckled softly. Indeed, some things were better left in the dark.

"Now at least you have a perfectly good explanation for the bruise on your face, Master Bruce."

"What?"

"Did you look at yourself this morning?"

"No, and I don't intend to do it for a couple of months at least, years if I have my say," he groaned, now remembering that he had hurt his head against the metallic frame of a bed during his fight in the infirmary. Damn! What a sight he had offered to the journalists... Unshaven, still a bit feverish, and a bruised face. If only it would push some of them to start feeling some pity for him, and stop this harassment.

_Snowball's chance in hell..._

"In that case, you might prefer to avoid this morning's special edition of the  _Sun_ , sir."

Raising perplexed eyebrows at Alfred's choice of newspaper, Bruce stretched a hand to take the colored paper Alfred was holding to him, and turned it to get the front page.

In red, bold characters, below a picture of him holding his jail admission number was written: 'No comment!'

Quickly, he read the article concerning him. It was detailing his arrest, including the fight.

"Dammit! How does Knox manage to always know before everybody what's going on in my life?" Bruce barked, throwing the paper away, irritated.

"That tabloid reporters have ears and eyes everywhere is not news, Master Bruce. What bothers me more, and should bother you too, are the consequences of the brawl you got yourself into."

Bruce sank further in his seat with a sigh.

"Well... That Bruce Wayne knows a thing or two in karate should not that be complicated to explain," Bruce replied, hating to talk about himself in the third person. It made him sound schizophrenic, as though he mentally separated himself into different entities.

"You know perfectly well that it is one thing to  _know_  a thing or two in martial arts, and another entirely to be able to apply such things in a real situation. I do hope this Sanchez was not arrested by your hand. "

"Afraid he'll make a link between me and..." Bruce asked, knowing the answer. It was dark in the infirmary. If Sanchez had been arrested by the Batman, the link could be obvious to him.

"It's a risk, sir."

"Well, he'll take the line up and wait for his turn," Bruce replied, setting back his gaze on the city landscape through the window while Alfred drove him to the Tower. One more problem did not make any difference.

An hour later, Bruce stepped out of his office's private bathroom, showered, shaved, and wearing clean shirt and pants. As Lucius handed him a well needed cup of coffee, he stopped and frowned, noticing the presence of Henry Belleford and Maggie Thomson sitting in the white leather loveseats of the lounge.

Bruce's fists unconsciously clenched. He had not had the time to look at all his associates' latest comings-and-goings, and there was no love lost between him and Belleford since Bruce's  _resurrection_ years ago.

"Mr. Wayne?" Lucius said, patting him on the arm, and silently enjoining him to take a seat.

"Okay..." Bruce whispered. If Lucius trusted the two directors, it was good enough for him.

"What are our options? Any counter-attack plan?" he asked, sitting down in the loveseat facing Belleford while Lucius took the one between them like a UN peacekeeper.

"A few months ago, I'd say Reagan could have worked," Belleford said, shaking his head, "but with your criminal trials and the press bashing you, you'll find it difficult to convince enough of the major shareholders at the extraordinary assembly to say no to the take-over."

"Then Pacman is our only chance," Maggie said with a confident smile, "Thanks to your controversial decision not to give any dividend since you took the reins, we now have seventy million in reserve that we can relocate to recapitalize, and emit about three-hundred-thousand shares."

Bruce made an appreciative face and nodded.

"So we make ourselves a bigger fish. Will it be enough to convince our shark to give up its attack?"

"If we're correctly informed, it should be sufficient," Lucius said, shifting on his seat.

Bruce frowned, not liking to see his old business partner's face shifting from confidence to uneasiness.

"Correctly informed?" Bruce repeated, not hiding his trouble, "May I ask by who? "

There was a tense silence. "Coleman Reese," Maggie finally replied.

Bruce gasped, incredulous. "Don't tell me he's working for Hickochin?" Bruce stood and began to nervously pace.

"As a matter of fact, he is," Lucius replied.

A short knock sounded, but Bruce, too shocked, ignored it, and turned toward Lucius to send him a dark glance. "What kind of coincidence is this?"

The door opened and Bruce saw Lucius and Belleford turning their heads toward the new comer.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, sirs, but there is a video call for Mr. Wayne on line 2," Bruce's secretary announced.

"Tell them to call back later," Bruce replied a bit more angrily than he intended.

"I'm sorry, sir, but  _he_  said that if you wanted to save your company, you must take the call now. He won't call back."

"And who is he?" Lucius asked, obviously troubled.

"Reynold's Industries' CEO."

Both Lucius and Belleford straightened noticeably, and Bruce saw them exchanging a wide, stunned glance.

"Vultures are circling," Belleford growled, his voice low and filled with disdain.

Jaws tightly clenched, Bruce grabbed the wide screen's remote control and turned the video conference set on.

"Good morning, Mr. Wayne," a cold, sufficient voice said.

Bruce froze, feeling all blood leaving his face.

How long exactly was the lineup of people waiting to destroy him? How many ghosts were still out there to haunt him?

 


	13. Chapter 13

"I DON'T CARE what he says!"

"Please, Mr. Wayne, calm down. Despite how unpleasant the situation is, don't let your emotions keep you from studying Earl's proposal in detail."

"Out of question, Lucius," Bruce replied, moving toward the bay window of his office, hands clenched into fists.

"I know there's no lost love between you and him," Belleford intervened, "and believe me, to a certain extent, I share your feelings. Your father would never have accepted the military direction Earl was heading the company in. But feelings and business never mix well. Earl knows it. As does the board of directors."

_No love lost? No kidding!_

Bruce exhaled deeply to control his emotions, and stared at the columns of smoke rising from roofs' exhausts into the clear blue sky. The blinding luminosity increased his headache, and forced him to turn away.

As he sat down in one of the black, leather love seats arranged around the square table, he propped his elbows on his knees and massaged his eyes.

So this was what it was all about. Earl's personal revenge against him for having been evicted from the golden chair of CEO.

This was no coincidence. The press' sudden battering, his prosecution for money laundering, all was part of Earl's plan to take the control back. No matter how he had innocently presented his intervention, pleading with a fawning voice to put aside the past dissensions, and to stick together to see the group through the storm, Bruce was not duped. Earl had been internally jubilated. Bruce had seen it in his eyes. Earl was the one pulling on the strings backstage.

_The only way to save your company._

Bruce shook his head.  _The only way to lose it..._

What was he going to do? By the looks on Lucius, Belleford, and Maggie's faces, his closest associates were at a loss.

If it had not been for his impending trial, he would have launched a counter-bid on Hickochin using his own name. A bid made by a physical person escaped the usual rules. He would not have to warn the SEC, or give a thirty-day period of notice to the targeted company. The surprise would have been total, assuring him that, even if Wayne Enterprises did not swallow Hickochin, the company would back off.

To attack in order to defend himself. Earl had expected this reaction.

Because of the prosecution, not a bank in the world would lend him the billions he needed to buy the Chinese conglomerate.

Methodically, Earl had cornered him on every side, save one.

Like a cattle in a slaughterhouse, the only  _exit_  left to him was the one that would led him to a certain death.

The irony of the situation inspired in Bruce nothing but a deep disgust.

And now the rogue was presenting himself in a position of savior. A white knight. His associates would see in his proposition of jointure with Reynolds Industries, the only way to keep the group from falling into alien hands.

"Lucius, call an extraordinary meeting for this afternoon," he said through clenched teeth. Now that he knew the  _who_ , and the  _why_ , all he had to discover was the  _how_ Earl had trapped him.

"I don't think it's a good idea to call the board so soon, Mr. Wayne," his friend replied, annoyed. "We must have a viable alternative to present to the directors before. At least-"

"Let's strike while the iron's hot," Bruce cut in. "I want him to think I'm panicking and that I'm too weakened to defend myself."

"You're committing a mistake so he can commit one? What kind of strategy is this?" Maggie asked vehemently, standing up suddenly.

"I want his spy to commit a mistake," Bruce corrected, staring at the director pacing nervously while Lucius let out a long sigh and removed his glasses to massage his eyes. Who had said to keep their feelings under control?

"In the meantime, can one of you find out how many shares Earl has swiped over the past few days thanks to panic in the stock market?"

Lucius shot him a reproachful glance, but Bruce feigned not to see it. His friend had warned him about the stock plummet a few days earlier; he still remembered his careless answer.

"He wouldn't have bought them under his name, but we certainly can try to track who acquired them," Lucius finally replied, turning his eyes toward Belleford.

Bruce saw both men exchanging a silent glance.

"Frank Meyer has owed us one for a long time," the director said.

Lucius nodded. "And he certainly got promoted since."

At this level of trouble, Bruce did not bother to ask who this Meyer was and why he owed them one. Satisfied that someone could help them, he nodded in his turn.

"Very well, then. I'll let you dig in this sludge," he said, standing up to announce the end of their council of war.

Half way to the door, Belleford suddenly stopped and pivoted to face Bruce again.

"Mr. Wayne? I also wish you to do something for us."

Bruce raised an eyebrow, and nodded to notify he was listening to him.

"All our efforts will be ruined if exhaustion makes you snore during this afternoon meeting. Please, take your nap before."

"My schedule's pretty tight, but I'll try my best to fit it in," he winced, not quite able to keep his tone from being bitter.

As the director walked out of his office with a condescending expression, Bruce stopped him.

"Mr. Belleford? Thank you. Just know that I truly appreciate your help and support," he then said, sincere.

"I'm only doing for you what I would have done for Thomas. Fighting till the end to keep the group intact, Mr. Wayne," the old man said before walking out.

"Lucius?" Bruce said, once the door closed, "It's indeed better for me not to show my sorry face right now."

"I don't know, you might try to pull up the wounded puppy strategy. Don't shoot at the ambulance that's coming to help you."

"But it's exactly what I want."

"What? To be shot at?" Lucius replied, eyes opening wide. "Are you suffering from fever delirium again?"

Bruce sent him an annoyed look.

"I'm perfectly fine, Lucius, but I want Earl's man to report to his master that I'm down. You'll be my official eyes this afternoon."

In front of his friend's dubious glance, Bruce winced, knowing perfectly which part of the sentence his old friend was in disagreement with. "Maybe  _perfectly_  is a tad exaggerated," he corrected, heading toward his personal elevator.

"Just a tad, huh? You should be in your bed," Lucius sighed, looking worried. With a resigned expression, he then asked, "If I am your official eyes, may I inquire where will your  _unofficial_ ones be?"

Bruce stepped in the cabin, and just as the door closed, said, "Watching TV."

"I guess Earl is in for a challenge..." his old friend replied, sarcastic.

A dangerous smirk appeared on Bruce's face. Earl had no idea who he was attacking.

* * *

Winter was a blessing for the Batman.

At three in the afternoon, dusk was slowly falling, and by five, it was as dark as if it were midnight.

In the beginning of the evening, Bruce was ready in his bunker, watching Knox through the surveillance cameras he had installed earlier, masqueraded as a Gotham One employee. Doing repairs on the electrical cables never arouse suspicion by this time of year, and only the alarm system could have caused Bruce a bit of difficulty. But thanks to his paranoia, Knox had installed one of the latest electronic systems; one  _Bruce's_ cell phone could connect to, and hack in a matter of seconds. Technology was definitively making human life easier.

_If only technology found a healthy way to stay awake..._

Bruce massaged his eyes, and stood up to get blood running through his legs again.

For now, watching Knox was not a difficult task, just a frustrating one. The man had gone from his office directly to his sofa, and seemed determined to spend all his evening in front of his TV.

As he paced around, Bruce's eyes automatically raised toward the clock.

A short relief invaded him. Usually, he did not like taking drugs, but his head felt like it was caught in a vise-like grip, while the bunker felt like the Everglades in the middle of summer.

As he swallowed his antibiotics and painkillers, he sat back down on his chair, rolled it to face a large screen on his left, and replayed the recording of the board meeting.

Two of the directors, on business trips in Europe and Japan, had joined the  _behind-closed-doors lynching_  via video conference. Hacking the signal had not been a tremendous task.

Jaw clenched, he watched again the people taking their places around the oblong, ebony table, in a thick silence that betrayed how serious the situation was.

As Lucius' grave voice sounded, thanking the directors for their quick reaction and presence, Bruce focused on the faces. One always missed something the first time. A second, and probably a third, even a fourth replaying would be necessary.

Exchanging a glance with Belleford on his left, Lucius began to talk, diving with no preamble in the heart of the matter. On his right, Hamilton, head of the Energy branch and one of the pillars of the group, opened his hands in front of him in disarray.

" _And where is Mr. Wayne?"_

Bruce waited for the attack to begin.

Even if Lucius had told them that he was at death's door, nothing could have kept the thunder of outraged voices from bursting. The old guard claimed that in the time of his father, such thing would have never happened, while the new ones either searched for a hole to hide or joined the prosecution.

Watching them again condemn him in his absence was hard to endure but less than the first time. Focusing on the faces, Bruce went through the whole meeting again. The traitor was in there somewhere.

Thanks to Lucius' and Belleford's interventions, some of the old guard, sensitive to a feeling of loyalty toward the group and Bruce's father's memory, softened its position. It created an inevitable chasm. About a third of the directors were willing to go for an emergency recapitalization, while a little more but not exactly half, were for creating an alliance with Reynolds Industries; the floating voters asked for more time to ponder about which solution was the best.

Bruce observed the faces and mentally noted all the names of the last two categories. If he were a traitor, he would try to put all his weight to make the balance tilt in the favor of an alliance with Earl. Or try not to make any fuss. If he counted the two directors that could not make it to the meeting, that considerably narrowed his search from fifteen to nine suspects.

Bruce sighed. It was a small progress, but still, it was progress nonetheless.

If one director had met with Earl in the last three months, he would know it by tallying their comings-and-goings.

A smirk appeared on Bruce's face. Today, Earl had already made his first mistake. In order to be joinable in all time, he had given Bruce his cell phone number. Now Bruce could track Earl as surely as if a spy satellite was hovering above his head. That's why he always left his own in his bedroom, and why Batman used a highly encoded, untraceable one.

As he rolled his chair toward a console on his right, Bruce glanced at the screen showing Knox. The man was worthless tonight; sleeping on his sofa with a point of pizza on the stomach.

Focusing back on his main preoccupation, he switched on the  _hacking_ computer, and was typing Earl's number into the software, when  _his_  cellphone vibrated.

Frowning, Bruce cast a glance at the small screen.

"Crap..." he muttered.

There'd been another murder.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Batman was standing on a roof above the fifth crime scene, a hundred-foot long alley finishing in a dead-end behind a Chinese restaurant in Downtown Island. Apparently, one of the kitchen employees had discovered the body when taking out some garbage.

Two police officers were still interrogating – or rather were trying to interrogate - the young man who was surrounded by his coworkers and boss. An incomprehensible mix of English and Chinese rose from the group.

Below his mask, Batman frowned. Fear and anger needed no translation to be understood. It was barely eight in the evening; the restaurant was full of customers.

Why was the killer taking so much risk? It looked like he wanted for the corpse to be discovered fast. Was he toying with the police? Was he watching them right now?

In the shadow of the fire escape, Batman raised his eyes and scanned the alley just as a vehicle stopped on the left, and only end. Upon recognizing the silhouette stepping out of the driver's door, a smirk appeared on Bruce's lips. Despite his promotion to commissioner, Gordon was still a field cop. Like an old sea dog, he needed to be out on the bridge with his men when a storm hit.

Careful not to make any sound, Batman unfolded his body and climbed back up the ladder.

Moving from one roof to the next, he crept toward Gordon's car to check who was massing at the safety perimeter.

The first silhouette he caught sight of snatched from him a sigh of annoyance. And when said silhouette bent in two to move past the crime scene tape a second later, he bit his lips so as not to let out a curse. Gordon was going to see red at Vale's persistence to ignore security perimeters.

While a police officer intercepted the journalist, Batman resumed scanning the crowd of onlookers. The shadow of a hood suddenly attracted his attention. A van was parked a bit in retreat in a perpendicular alley. As soon as he activated his mask-embedded thermal imagery, the hood became a red-orange spot, yellow in its center. The engine was still hot.

Adrenaline rushed in his blood.

Recalling the van that had scared him the previous night by driving too close to Vale, Batman decided to check on the vehicle. Carefully, he moved all the way back toward the restaurant. Then, using his grappling gun, he hauled himself on a roof fifty feet higher, and headed toward the van using the roofs of the buildings on the alley's opposite side.

Using a fire escape in a dark recess, he climbed down to the street, and after checking that his path was clear, covered the distance to the suspicious vehicle. Though he could not see inside the rear cabin, it seemed lifeless. For a moment, a doubt seized him as he wondered if he could be roaming around one of the police's unmarked surveillance units. However, acting on a hunch that it was not the case, he slipped a transmitter onto the van before retreating back toward the recess.

Crouched in the darkness, he activated his radio link. A few seconds later, Alfred's distorted voice crackled in his ear.

"I need you to check a license plate for me."

While Alfred gave him the name of a society, and an address on Sheal's industrial zone, Batman stared at the crowd, anxious to see who would climb in the driver's seat. He did not have to wait long. Less than five minutes later, a man of average size and build passed by him, and dived into the cabin.

"I'm sending you pictures of a suspect; see what you can do to identify him," he said, quickly climbing the fire escape, this time to join his powerful bike.

More than ever convinced that he had finally a lead, Batman used the city's wide network of dark alleys to follow the suspect vehicle without driving on the main streets. A street before Sheal's bridge, he paused, and allowed two cars to pass by him, before engaging the bike, all lights shut down, on the frozen asphalt above the icy waters of Gotham's river.

At this hour of the evening, there was not much traffic going in and out of Gotham's industrial neighborhood. Expecting his target to stop at the address Alfred had provided him, Batman increased his speed to get a visual on the van. Now he did not want to let the man out of his personal sight. But against all odds, the van passed by a street away from the society's location without slowing.

As the last buildings disappeared in the bike's side mirrors, Batman followed the suspect on a road going through forest hills, wondering if the license plate could be a fake or stolen.

A rush of adrenaline flooded his veins. It was another clue that might lead him to the serial killer. Thrilled, he focused on planning his steps once the van reached its destination when his rear sonar signaled the presence of a car half a mile behind him. Anxious, he increased his speed just as the road came out of a clump of trees after a tight curve.

As a sudden swirling wind hit him, a bolt of sparks streaked the road just in front of his wheel.

The combined effect of the surprise and the impacts on his windshield made him lose control of his bike. More gunshots burst shards of asphalt around him as he slid on his back and rolled into a deep ditch. A moan of pain came out of his lips when an extruding stump stopped his fall. Ignoring the acute burn of his ribs, he raised on his elbows as more gun barrel flashes lightened in the air. Out of pure instinct, he threw himself under the cover of trees to avoid being riddled with bullets.

Screeching tires suddenly sounded. As he rose to his feet, he saw with dread a car flying in a somersault toward him and drive between the trees just above him. Heart pounding out of his chest, he rolled away before being crushed under the metallic mass.

As the car's shell creaked in the air, the driver's door opened and with a cry, a person fell into the snow.

"Damn it!" he cursed, rising on his feet to rush to the unfortunate civilian involved in the attack against him. As he dragged the woman away from the suspended vehicle, a small detonation followed by a loud whistling sounded.

An alarm blared in his mind. Without hesitation, Batman pushed the woman on the snow covered ground and protected her with his solidified cape just as the shock wave of an explosion shook the ground and lit the underbrush like broad daylight. Fragments of trees and car flew above them. Feeling his cape burning, Batman rolled on his side to extinguish the fire. The Kevlar of his armor had protected them, but it felt definitively limper on his skin than it should have.

As he rose to his feet, he noticed that in a ten yards radius around the impact, the ground was bare while under his boots, the snow was partially melted. It was a miracle they were still alive; if not for the last days of storm, they would have been grilled like chickens.

Stunned by the violence of the drastic measures taken to eliminate him, Batman raised his eyes upon hearing the top of the trees swaying. The helicopter was hovering above their position. Without wasting time, he hauled the woman to her feet and dragged her away.

"Wha... what the hell was that?" she cried, suddenly showing resistance.

"Come with me if you want to live," he growled, as he heard doors sliding open and clashing as they slid shut. An in-ground unit had just arrived.

Batman let out a curse. Even if it would be more difficult for the helicopter to see them through the dense trees, the killers on their heels would easily beat them to step out in the open sooner or later, offering the sniper in the air two easy targets. Aware of how thin their chances to survive were now, Batman activated his sonar and picked up their pace.

But the terrain was heavy, and their feet sunk in the snow. Though he managed to keep his balance, the woman fell several times, uttering small cries of surprise or pain that gave away their position.

Well-trained, the rogues shot at them; their bullets sliced the air around them. And when one burst of gunshots coincided with her cry and fall, he feared the worst. With a curse, he dragged her under cover of a large trunk on their left, and crouched down beside her. Almost at the same moment, a salvo struck through the branches and dug in the ground just where they had been an instant earlier.

Batman swore. This was more than a lucky shot. The killers were equipped with night-vision goggles, maybe infra-red too.

"Stay under cover. Don't move a toe," he ordered, before jumping to catch the lowest branch five feet overhead.

A he stabilized himself on the branch, he threw two batarangs to the closest killers, and sent them a stun grenade to incapacitate them while he got rid of the aerial threat.

While cries of surprise and pain echoed, he hauled himself as high as the branches could support his weight, fast and agile. Fifty feet up, he carefully walked as far as possible on a thin limb to get a clearer aim on the chopper's rear rotor. As the branch swayed, he contracted his muscles, held his breath, and shot.

An immediate tug told him he had hit. Quickly, he disengaged his grappling gun from the steel cable, while the helicopter began to move erratically. A burst of gunfire strafed the tree. The next thing he knew, he was plummeting toward the ground, breaking branch after branch. His sharp reflexes kicking in, he managed to grasp one, and with agility, he wound his body around and hauled himself onto the branch.

As soon as he was stable, he activated the thermal reading of his mask to check the in-grounds rogues' status.

Fifteen feet downward, five orange and purple spots appeared immediately.

One killer was on the ground barely ten feet behind the woman. Still under the stun grenade's effects, he tried with difficulties to get himself up. The three others were carefully hidden behind trunks, spread a dozen feet away from each other to cover more angles.

As Batman discreetly jumped down to the ground, the sound of an explosion tore the night apart.

He craned his neck over his shoulder to check what was going on when gunshots burst, followed by a high pitched cry of terror.

With dread, he saw the woman jumping to her feet and running away.

Straight away, he threw a batarang at the killer who was mowing down the whole underbrush with his machine-gun. In a quick few jumps, Batman swooped down on him, and knocked him out cold with a powerful punch to the face. As expected, his three companions immediately left their position to join the fight.

Batman knocked the weapon out of one of the killer's hands, stopping in the same breath a second from coming too close with a powerful side kick in the solar plexus.

As the man collapsed on the snow, Bruce seized the first man's arm, and twisted it when he moved behind him. A dry crack sounded as he dislodged the killer's shoulder, and roughly sent him crashing into the last rogue who was coming behind him. A moan of pain sounded as the man collapsed in the last killer's arms. Wasting no time, Batman knocked the latter with a circular kick in the head.

As he landed, crouched on the ground, Batman raised his head, and cursed. Though satisfied to see none of the rogues moving, the panicked woman was nowhere to be seen. Aware that running blindly in a forest during a cold night could only end badly, he ignored his throbbing head, and threw himself after the woman. She could not have gone too far.

And indeed, it did not take him long to find her.

Half a mile further, the terrain suddenly became steep. Stopping on top of the hillside, he stared downward. She was standing still at the bottom, favoring her left arm. He gasped. The helicopter had crashed on a house.

A horrible feeling in his stomach, Batman slid down to the bottom of the hill and, feeling his breath shortening, he walked toward the rubble of the cottage. The cottage was large enough to shelter a young family. Jaws clenched, he moved around the burning residence, and despite the smoke that grazed his sick lungs, he searched for a place to enter while praying not to stumble on a tricycle or any other toy that would confirm his fear.

A sudden fit of coughing set his chest in fire. Gasping for air, he stepped back toward the gravel path surrounding the house when a violent impact on his side suddenly sent him flying away.

As he hit the ground hard, he saw two red tail lights moving away.

 _Crap..._  he mentally swore as he lay on his belly and in agony. Had he just been hit by a car?

With difficulty, Batman stumbled to his knees, and blinked to clear his sight, struggling to stay conscious.

"Come on!" a woman's voice said, grabbing his arm, and trying to haul him up.

Startled by the voice, he opened his eyes, and saw a woman in the backlighting caused by the raging fire.

"Get up!" she insisted, "I don't want the police here anymore than you do."

Upon recognizing her voice, Batman straightened on his knees.

"Vale?! What... are you... doing... here?" he growled between two harsh breaths.

"What? What am I do- Damn!" the journalist replied just as sirens and screeching tires sounded above the loud crackling of the burning house.

Trying to ignore his multitude of injuries, Batman stood up, and with Vale's help, headed with a stagger into the woods.

As they moved deeper into the cold darkness, he felt Vale stiffening. From supportive, her arm shifted position and clung tightly on him.

"You see the path, don't you?" she whispered, voice shaking.

"Like in broad daylight," he replied, biting his lips not to cough when icy air found his inflamed throat.

Realizing that it was pitch black for her, he slowed down their pace enough so she could keep her balance on the rough terrain. Though he doubted that the killers would have lingered after their severe beating and the loss of air support, he forced himself to stay alert while he led them back toward the road where he had been ambushed earlier. His bike was their only easy way out. At least, if it was not too heavily damaged by the bullets. In such a case, he would not have much of a choice but to call for a lift.

Batman mentally cringed at the unpleasant prospect of knocking Vale out in order to keep his identity safe.

 _One problem at a time_ , he reminded himself. For now, he had to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, and this was easier said than done.

With the adrenaline wearing off, he felt as if a fifty-ton truck had run him over. And while he could hear Vale's teeth chattering because of the freezing temperature, he could swear his body gave out enough warmth to melt the snow under his feet.

Batman cursed. This pneumonia could not have happened at a more ill-time moment. He who could count on the fingers of one hand the times he had fallen sick. But as Alfred had said, mistaking Gotham's river in winter for the Caribbean Sea in summer was sure to cause some nasty side effects.

Several times, he stopped to control a fit of coughing, biting his lips so as not to utter a sound that would give away their presence and position. But when a particularly intense one took him, causing his legs to buckle under his weight, he switched on his thermal sensors in his cowl to check that he had not attracted any attention.

Relieved to see no other colored shape except Vale's, he forced his body to straighten up and resumed their way. However, his strength was running low. A few yards further, intense shivers seized his limbs while suddenly, he felt like he was back into the icy waters of the river. Teeth chattering, he collapsed on his knees and wrapped his arms around him.

_Rub your chest with your hands to get warmer._

Startled to hear Ducard's voice, he jerked his head straight and saw his shadow in front of him. Disoriented, he cringed, and fell backward.

"There must be someone who can help you."

Batman frowned. It was a woman's voice. "Vale?"

"Who can I call?"

His torpor vanishing as quick as it had appeared, Batman shook his head, and immediately regretted it. In a last spurt of effort, he leaned a hand on the nearby tree and stood up. With the journalist's help, he managed to cover another dozen yards before the forest swirled in front of his eyes.

As he struggled to stay conscious, he heard her stiffened voice urging him again to tell her who she could call for help.

"Alfred..." he whispered just as a dark veil shrouded his vision completely.


	14. Chapter 14

The next morning, Vicky Vale was sitting on a stool in the kitchen of Bruce Wayne's penthouse. The dark brown elements, black marble counters and the grey bricks covering the walls along with steel panels awarded a cold atmosphere to the room that the warm mug in her hands could not dispel.

Drained, she absently stared at the steam rising from the coffee, at a loss about what to think about her presence in this place. Of all the places... of all the people the Batman could be... how could he be Wayne?

"How do you feel, Miss Vale?"

Startled, the young woman jerked her head straight, and winced when some coffee splashed out of her mug.

"Sorry," she said, standing up to search for something to wipe the spill.

"Do not worry, Miss," the old butler said, taking some napkins on the counter behind him, and adding gently, while he cleaned: "I guess this answers my question."

The butler's kind eyes calmed Vale down.

"How is he?" she inquired, rubbing her own tired eyes.

"His fever is finally down and he's now sound asleep," the old man replied, serving himself a cup of coffee before joining her in a facing stool. "Something you should try yourself, I might suggest."

"I... I'm used to sleepless nights," she said, lowering her gaze to her mug when the butler raised a skeptical eyebrow, his piercing eyes suddenly cutting through her mind.

Feeling suddenly ill at ease, Vale swallowed a lump and shifted on her seat. Who was she trying to fool with such answers?

Though the old man stayed silent, she felt compelled to add, "Well... I'm used to spending nights working on articles..."

Her voice briefly strangled in her throat, and she took a deep breath.

"Not on having my car blown up by a rocket, or being shot at in a forest at night."

"Or discovering the number one public enemy's true identity," the butler completed, looking suddenly deadly serious.

"That too," Vale added, averting her eyes. As her heart started to pound faster in her chest, she wondered with dread in which fine mess she had gotten herself into.

"I'd be quite shocked if I was in your place."

Vale nodded before shaking her head. "Truth be told, I feel numb. I don't know what shocks me more right now..."

Feeling tears stinging in her eyes, she briefly averted her glance again, and took a deep breath.

Her eyes fell on her hands, and for a moment, she felt again Wayne's warm fingers clenching tight around hers while the old butler drove both of them back toward the penthouse. Finding out who was the Batman had not been the hardest blow to take on last night.

"He talked in his delirium last night," she whispered, needing to speak to alleviate a torment that was not hers. While the rag in her hand absorbed his fever, she had absorbed his pains.

"I remember seeing his face amongst the large crowd that had gathered for Rachel Dawes' burial one year ago. He seemed so lost that it truly touched me; his sorrow somehow lowering him back to the same level as ordinary people. But not even a week later, the  _Sun_  showed a picture of him, a large smile and two pin-up girls clinging at his arms. I felt so utterly disgusted by this complete lack of decency."

"As did he, Miss Vale. As did he," Alfred replied.

Vale raised her eyes. The painful expression on the old man's face made her gasp.

"He did it to remove any suspicions, didn't he? So nobody would think he loved her because the rumor already spread that the Batman did?"

The butler nodded gravely, and turned his eyes away briefly.

Feeling tears rising again, Vale buried her head into her hands before taking a deep breath.

"How can he endure this?" she asked in a whisper.

"He clenches his fists, and fights criminality every night. That is how he endures."

Jaw tightly clenched, the old butler stood up, and moved around before saying, "Someone once said that hell is other people, Miss Vale. With this _masquerade_ , Mr. Wayne knew what he was condemning himself to. I cannot say that he is at peace with this situation, but life made him strong enough to bear his burden."

Vale raised a skeptical eyebrow, not only because of the words but rather because of the tone. A tone that had the bitter taste of ash, the one of words repeated long enough to convince oneself. Wayne had seemed all but strong last evening. And some burdens were not meant to be shouldered. At least, not alone.

"Mr. Pennyworth, please, when he wakes up, tell him that I changed my mind about deontology. I'll get him what he needs," Vale said. Standing up, she decided to come to the aid of the fallen prince of Gotham.

* * *

A few minutes later, Vicky Vale stepped out of the luxurious building using an exit that opened onto a quiet side street.

The freezing wind made her raise her scarf over her mouth. She hastened her pace, heading toward the main avenue to hail a taxi when a voice startled her.

"Look who's there?!"

Vale froze on the spot and slowly pivoted.

"What are you doing here, Alex?" she exclaimed, keeping silent a curse with great difficulty. Of all the people, why in hell did she have to meet  _him_  right there, right now?

"Me? My job of course. But must ask you the same question."

"No," she growled, shoving past him and walking faster toward the traffic.

"No answer is an answer," Knox replied, hot in her heels.

"I'm not in a mood to play, Alex."

"Vicky, Vicky, Vicky... You disappoint me, you know? No later than yesterday, I swear I heard you say that his charm only worked on bimbos."

"Don't take this condescending tone with me," she shot back. Damn! Where was a taxi when you needed one?

"You're not denying it."

"Dammit, Alex! There's nothing to deny in the first place," she said, her eyes finally catching sight of a yellow spot up the street. Quickly, she waved her arm to attract the driver's attention.

"Now would be the perfect time to accuse him of sexual assault, you know?"

Gasping, Vale stopped dead in her track. How could he?

"Bastard!" she muttered, before letting out a curse upon seeing the taxi passing by her without stopping. Her shoulders sunk.

"I'm sorry, Vicky. It slipped out," the  _Sun_ 's reporter said. "Call it a professional bias, okay?"

"Professional brainwashing isn't even close to my thought, Knox. You need to read something besides your own degenerate articles!"

"I said I'm sorry, okay, what do you want me to do now, beg on my knees?" he asked, dropping to the ground for real.

"Stand up, Alex, please," she said, scared that the equivocal posture would attract attention.

"Only if you say you forgive me," he replied, crossing his hands on his heart.

Vale sighed, not able to keep a smile from appearing on her lips. Not only did Knox's apology appear sincere, but against all odds, the funny though eccentric boy she had met in junior high school was still there somewhere, buried under the bitter and filthy layers of his years as the  _Sun_ 's star reporter.

"Vicky, I love you!" Knox proclaimed. He wore a large smile that Vale could see spreading on the faces of the other people in the street.

"I forgive you, now stand up, Alex, this is downright embarrassing," Vale whispered, turning her head slightly away to hide a blush.

Knox chuckled and complied. "Sorry, Vicky."

Vale shook her head and resumed her way. "There, I can tell you're not sincere," she smirked. "Can you give me a lift?"

"Sure. My car's right here," he said, pointing with a finger at a grey Ford Focus parked on the other side of the street. "What happened to your car?" he asked as he installed himself behind the wheel.

"Long story," she said, closing the door, relieved to escape the cold weather.

"Your place?"

Though wanting nothing more than to crash on her bed and sleep through her whole day, Vale shook her head. "No, the  _Globe_. Ernie's on my back to have my article ready by noon, last call."

"Hence the slip over?"

Vale was about to reply when an idea suddenly popped up. Looking falsely annoyed, she replied, "Yeah... but I don't know. I feel there's something amiss with him. He has some quick changes of mood. I tried to talk to his butler but the man did not want to spill the beans."

"If you want my opinion, his booze and drug consumption must have fried his brain."

Vale shifted on her seat, finding it hard not to defend Wayne. But she did not wish to have an argument again. She let a moment of silence pass before saying, "No, it's something else. Maybe a well hidden depression after his parents' death that sprung out again last year with Dawes' murder. I need your help, Alex."

The effect those words had on the reporter forced Vale to hide a smirk by biting her cheek.

"My help? Wow! If I thought that I would hear that one day. Just can you say it again I wanna be su-"

"Alex?"

"All right. Anything you wish unless it goes against the  _Sun_ 's morality."

Vale chuckled briefly.

"I need to talk with the informer that feed you those crispy details about Wayne's life."

"My source? Nothing less?" Knox said, stopping his car in double row in front of the  _Globe_ 's building.

Vale nodded. As she saw him hesitant, she raised an eyebrow and added with a smirk, "I'll invite you to dinner."

"Your place?"

"A restaurant."

"I choose."

"Deal."

Knox nodded. "Alright. Stay near your cell phone. I'll try to arrange something for you. And to prove to you how good a guy I am, I'll say nothing about your little rendezvous at Wayne's penthouse in my next article."

"How nice of you," Vale replied with a sarcastic smile.

Mortified about the consequences if the judge only heard a whisper of this, Vale opened the door and stepped out when Knox called her back. Despite the furious honk of a driver behind them, she bent to see what he wanted.

"So. How is he in bed?"

Upon hearing Alex Knox's last obnoxious remark, she let out a shocked  _Oh!_ and slammed the door.

* * *

Later that morning, Vicky Vale was staring absent-minded at her computer's screensaver fishes when a small chime coming from her cell phone jerked her back to reality.

"Crap..." she swore. The direction weekly meeting had to be today.

Weary, she got up, took her mug, and headed toward the coffee machine.

A few minutes later, she entered into the conference room with her notebook in one hand, hot coffee in the other when her cell phone buzzed. With a curse, she quickly stepped in, apologized to the chief of the international service for bumping his shoulder as she put down everything on the table, and walked out to take the call.

When she walked back into the room, her heart was pounding fast in her chest with thrill. Even if Knox could be downright insufferable at his times, he also knew how to redeem himself. Tomorrow evening, she would discover who was behind Wayne's problems.

"Let's begin with Society," Ernie Rosendall, the Globe's chief editor said. "Are your articles on Wayne finally ready or not, Vale?"

"Not yet, I need a couple of days more. After talking to him, I realized that we need to cover the aspect of his business policy. He seems a rather responsible businessman and I-"

The chief editor almost strangled himself while the head of Economy, a plump man in his late forties, sniggered.

"Vale, you know that  _businessman_ and  _responsible_ are two words our readers only want to see associated in a negative form."

"Then may I suggest, Brian, that you get yourself new lenses. Or at least have the decency not to impose yours on my service," she exclaimed, feeling outraged

"We are already covering his leadership, for God's sake," Brian exclaimed. "And I can tell you this, he's nowhere close to the definition of responsible. The man keeps on deceiv-"

"I'm sorry, Brian, for crushing on your feet again," Vale cut in, not really sounding sorry, "but I insist. Wayne Enterprise's situation is one thing and you have all my blessing to treat it in depths in your columns, but the way Bruce Wayne deals with his leadership is part of my articles on him."

The head of Economy shot her an indignant glance. "His leadership or lack thereof has everything to do with his group's situa-"

"He makes decisions that have a social impact on the city, the country and even worldwide, I just can't ignore them because you insist on treating information like we did in the nineteenth century. Things are not that simple any-"

"Enough! Calm down both of you. Vale? Treat the way Wayne leads his enterprise to bankruptcy and the consequences under the social angle in your article, but please, don't show him as an innocent fish amongst sharks. I don't buy it and people won't buy it."

"What are we, the  _Sun_  or what?" Vale exclaimed, not believing her ears. Since when did they write what people wanted to read instead of the truth?

"Like the  _Sun_ , we need to sell," Ernie shot back.

"So now it's money above deontology?" Vale said, clenching all her muscles to stay seated on her chair.

"Don't throw the thesaurus at me, Vale," the chief editor barked.

His angry look as well as the silent glares of the two dozen people around the table finally made her stand down. With a sigh of exhaustion, she relaxed against the back of her seat.

"There's been some mayhem in Sheal's outskirts yesterday evening," Ernie continued with a groan. "Who's covering this in your team, Vale?"

_Be at Battery Park, WWII mem. 9pm. A friend._

Vale averted her eyes from her cell phone's screen and the text message that had just popped up.

"What? Oh, yes, Sheal. Er... Andrews reported sick today, and the others are overloaded," she said, keeping silent the rest of her thoughts about the last budgetary cuts. "I'm going to MCU to see what they found," she added, all too happy by this way out of the meeting. Without a glance, she took all her belongings, and walked out.

In an urgent need to breathe some fresh air, she passed by her office to take her coat, and walked straight away to the elevators.

Damn... What had happened to her during the meeting? Why had she gotten into a territory fight with Brian? Her opinion was usually well respected; she did not need to bite to get her bone. She had just undermined her reputation of serious journalist by losing control of her nerves. And how was she going to explain to the police why her car has been blown up near the crash? Her insurance would never cover this...

When Vale walked into the mirror-walled cabin, and pressed on the lobby button instead of P2, she felt like the weight of her problems would cause the elevator to dig to earth's entrails.

* * *

Ten minutes before nine, Vicky Vale was fidgeting in front of a large, black marble memorial dedicated to the fallen soldiers of the Second World War. A warm front blowing in from the south had brought unseasonable temperatures to Gotham, so the night wasn't unbearable. All around the well-lit memorial, piles of snow melted.

"What a beautiful sight," a familiar voice said behind her.

Startled, the journalist pivoted quickly, and frowned upon seeing the silhouette of a man staring at the city's skyscrapers. Their lit silhouettes pierced the night above the dark shadows of trees.

"Co-commissioner? What are you doing here?" she asked him, glancing all around her with a certain nervousness.

"I wonder also," he replied with a bitter tone. "But obviously, I'm checking on you for a friend we have in common."

"Checking on me for a... oh!" Vale said, frowning. What?! Her eyes widened out of shock.

Gordon sighed. "Oh."

"You and... are..." she said, biting her lips, still uncertain.

"Partners?"

Gordon's answer fell like a cold stone in the pit of her stomach.

That the Batman had some insider help in the police to be able to elude the hunt for so long was no surprise. But after all the commissioner's family had gone through... She could not believe it! This was just the blow she needed to complete her day.

Taking a deep breath, she paced around, her eyes searching for the silhouette of a bench in the snow.

What a brilliant actor Gordon was.

In the following weeks after Dent's tragic death, she remembered testing him to decide if he were serious about accusing the Batman of being nothing less than a murderer, or if the Commissioner was covering some greater conspiracy.

"So I was right," Vale sighed, shaking her head. Not only did she feel offended to have been played, but above all, Gordon had deliberately hidden the truth about Dent's murders and falsely accused an innocent.

 _Hell's other people..._ she pondered, recalling the old butler's words. Indeed. With friends like that, Bruce Wayne did not need enemies to make his life a complete hell. "So I guess you know about yesterday evening?"

"With your detective skills, you should consider joining the police force, miss Vale," the Commissioner replied. "We found your 'stolen' car in the forest. Here, this is for you."

Vale felt the Commissioner sliding a solid object in her hand. An oblong and thin box. Knowing better than to open it despite her curiosity, she put it in her pocket, and whispered, "What is it?"

"A micro transmitter for your operation."

"My what?"

"Our  _common_ friend appreciates your help, but doesn't want you to go fishing out without a safety net."

"Oh!" Vale said, not knowing what to say. Wayne was obviously not the kind to leave anything to chance.

"Oh," Gordon repeated with a sigh in which weariness sounded.

"How is he?" she asked, imagining him shivering under his bedcovers.

Another long sigh escaped the Commissioner's lips. "Ask me when it's gonna rain tonight and I'll get you a more accurate answer," he muttered, glancing all around him.

Vale's eyes widened. "Don't tell me he's out?"

"If you find a way to chain him to his bed, tell me. I'd be happy to use it," the commissioner said, walking away.


	15. Chapter 15

"Master Bruce, this is pure madness."

Bruce turned his eyes toward his bedroom's door.

"I finally found a trail yesterday, Alfred. I don't intend to let it vanish," he sighed, putting on a black polar sweatshirt with a wince of pain. His shoulder was still sore, and he was still feeling a bit down, and too hot, but he could not allow himself to rest right now.

While his old friend came in, holding a steaming bowl on a tray, Bruce opened his nightstand drawer and retrieved the bottle of muscle relaxant. He did not feel hungry and though he was thirsty, the soup did not appeal him. Nor did he have the patience to wait for it to cool down. Aware of his old friend's reproachful stare on his back, he took out two pills, picked up the bottle of water at the bottom of his bed, and drained it in one gulp.

"The fact that trained killers fall on you as soon as you are out does not seem to worry you. How did they know where you would be yesterday evening?" Alfred asked, putting the tray on the night stand.

"That I'd be around a crime scene is no surprise," he replied, hiding another wince with difficulty as he passed his left arm through his leather jacket's sleeve. "They probably spotted me like Vale did."

"That you are becoming careless worries me even more."

Bruce grunted and sighed deeply, not knowing what to answer to such statement. As he opened the concealed door leading to the panic room, Alfred's voice stopped him.

"Master Bruce? You need to detach yourself from this relentless quest for justice, or else this bloody city will kill you like it killed your parents."

Bruce's jaw clenched tight as the words clashed in his mind like a gunshot.

"I'll get some rest, Alfred. As soon as the serial killer is behind bars," he said before disappearing through the opening.

* * *

About thirty minutes later, Bruce stepped out of the elevator platform and let out a sigh of despair when he caught sight of the wreckage of his powerful bike.

On his way toward the island of computer standing in the middle of the bunker, he briefly stopped next to the imposing vehicle to give it a closer look. A streak of shots had cut a line in the fuel tank.

As his fingers followed the furrow, he shook his head and muttered a curse.

His hope to arrest the serial killer tonight was melting as surely as the snow under the warm wind that blew over the city. Unless he borrowed a vehicle from the police, he was now a walking vigilante. He needed to talk to Lucius and see if they could work double on the new Tumbler, get it ready in a couple of weeks. Until then, Alfred might get his wishes.

Bruce's shoulders sunk in front of this new ordeal.

With a sigh of deep frustration, he nonetheless headed toward the desk, and switched on the main system. While text scrolled on the main screen, he removed his leather jacket and put it on the back of a chair. Staying up, he entered his login and password, and waited for the system to complete its launch. Though the idea irritated him, it seemed that the only option he had left tonight was to call Gordon to send a patrol to investigate the address where the van would be. In the meantime, he still had work to do. He would spend his night on his associates' comings and goings and see if any could have met with Earl in the last month.

With a grunt, he finally convinced his feet to move around the chair and sat down.

A short instant later, a map of Gotham appeared, a red spot blinking on its center. A sparkle of thrill ignited the Batman's eyes. The van was only five blocks away.

* * *

On the deserted, windy docks, Batman crept along the shadows of the huge cranes and containers. Ice and snow melted, creating shining rivulets that ran along the metallic structures, and flooded the concrete surface under his boots. Tense, he forced himself not to move too fast to keep his boots silent. The night spread easily the echo of steps.

His heart was pumping furiously in his chest when he reached his destination a few minutes later. Little from fear of being caught, a lot more from the thrill of having found the killer. Who else would park his van in the rear alley of a disused mortuary?

The whole sector had been bought by a real estate developer a few months ago. Most of the buildings around the mortuary were lifeless, waiting to be destroyed. Even during the day, there was not much traffic in the surrounding streets. The perfect place for a murderer to lurk.

Hugging the wall, Batman moved around the van that was parked in the slope that gave direct access to the basement and where ambulances and hearses used to stop to deliver. The garage door was closed but there was a service door next to it. Batman tried the round handle. It was locked. Partially hidden by the van, he took out a set of hex keys from his utility belt, and worked on forcing the lock. The door handle turned a few seconds later.

Taking a deep breath, he sneaked into the disused mortuary.

Jaws clenched, he stared at a small hall revealed in shades of grey by his sonar. Though the place had been abandoned a couple of months ago, no proper cleaning had been made. There was an empty chair in front of the reception desk, and papers were piled here and there on the counter. The wall panel next to it still held informative pamphlets about groups of psychological support, commercial flyers for funeral services. There were still a sofa and two armchairs in the little waiting room, magazines on the side table at the disposal of the people called for a body identification, distressed families members hoping till the last minute that there had been a mistake.

Alfred had once stood in a similar room years ago.

Batman let out a tense sigh and called himself back to order. He had to focus. He had to find the killer. And if Bruce was logical, he would find the killer in the creepiest room of the mortuary.

Batman was heading toward the double door next to the reception desk when a clapping sound coming from his boots stopped him. Silencing a curse, he resumed his way. There was nothing he could do to keep his soles from leaving traces of water.

In the eerie silence, he resumed his way. From the long corridor he walked, a number of offices and a restroom branched out. At the very end of the corridor was another set of double doors. As discreetly as possible, he pushed the left panel and cast a look.

Under his cowl, Batman's eyes widened and a cold shudder ran down his spine.

In the center of the autopsy room, a man dressed like a pathologist was standing between two stainless steel tables. His back to the entrance, he was busy on a corpse laid on the furthest table.

A brief nausea seized Batman, and forced him to gulp down bile. Grateful that his sonar spared him crude details, he took a deep breath. Obviously still unaware of being watched, the man put down a scalpel on a tray and adjusted the ceiling suspended lamp's position over the body.

Something was amiss.

If a sheet covered a human corpse on the first table, leaving no doubt about the person's fate, a discreet, slow but steady beat sounded, like the one a heart monitor would give. The second victim was still alive.

Horrified by the sordid scene, Batman silently moved forward. He did not want to put the woman at more risk than she already was, and knew he had to neutralize the pathologist-killer as  _delicately_ as possible.

"It's not what you think it is," the man suddenly said.

_What?_

"Please, let me finish, and I'll explain everything after."

Taken aback by the sharp but pleading tone, Batman hesitated to jump on him.

And how could the man have spotted him?

On a hunch, he deactivated his sonar and caught sight of the reflection of a mirror. Damn! Alfred was right. He was careless. He knew his sonar could not properly reveal everything in a scene.

"Move aside slowly," he growled, furious against himself.

"If I do that, she will die."

"If you don't, you will die," Batman threatened.

"I don't care," the man claimed, resuming his operation. "Please! I told you it's not what you think! Let me finish..."

Detecting a troubling honesty in the shaking voice, Batman sighed, uncertain. There was something wrong. The man was begging him. This was certainly not an omnipotent serial killer's behavior. Feeling a sudden tiredness, Batman took out his cell phone and called Gordon. On the other end of the line, the commissioner asked him if he needed to bring reinforcements.

"No. Just an ambulance," he growled, terminating the communication. Ignoring his resurfacing headache, he stepped forward and said, "Help is on its way. Now move away from the body."

"No!" the man cried, furious. "She can't be moved again! I alone can save... her..." The man's last word got lost in a moan of pain as he suddenly leaned heavily on the table in front of him, seizing his head in a hand before stretching an arm toward something.

Taking advantage of his sudden dizzy turn, Batman leaped above the first table. But as he fell down on the pathologist, his knees buckled and he collapsed on the ground like a stone, dragging the man down with him. A cold shudder seized him as his eyes fell on a small, pressurized tank of nitrogen, and noticed liquid on the ground. It was leaking.

While his sight blurred and his headache strengthened painfully, an angry red alarm blared in Batman's mind. He had to move out of here. Why he did not know. He just knew that he had to get the hell out of there. Now!

Gathering all his strength, Batman pushed on his hands to stand up when he suddenly felt an arm collar his chest and a hand press a rag smelling of ether against his mouth and nose. With the force of a cornered lion, he struggled to break free, and sent the pathologist flying above him. The man crashed on the wall of refrigerated body lockers. Short-breathed, Batman forced his numb legs to obey and tried to stand up despite the violent swirling that affected him. He managed to stabilize himself on his knees when a creaking sounded. Out of reflex, he ducked just in time to avoid being struck by a metallic gurney slicing the air toward him. But he could not avoid a blow on the back of his head.

The autopsy room swirled in front of his eyes as he collapsed on the cold, hard ground.

While his eyelids fluttered as he fought to stay conscious, he was vaguely aware of being hauled up on a horizontal surface. The shadow of the pathologist briefly appeared above him. As his hand clenched into a weak fist, the ceiling flashed past, and suddenly, his world shrunk to a very small, dark and cold space.


	16. Chapter 16

"Master Bruce, wake up, sir!"

Like a lightning bolt, Alfred's order splintered the darkness.

Eyes flying open, Bruce sat up straight in his bed and stared all around him, disoriented. It took him a moment to realize that the sober décor of his bedroom was real. Feeling out of breath, he crashed back on his mattress, and massaged his eyes with the palms of his hands. What a nightmare! Being locked up in a morgue freezer... The message was clear enough that he did not need a psychoanalyst to have it explained. Bruce let out a long sigh and breathed deeply to stop his heart from beating a mile a minute. But his guts were too twisted, and his body did not seem willing to relax any moment soon. Feeling irritation rising, he tried to disentangle himself from the bed sheets when Alfred patted his shoulder.

"Calm down, sir, you are safe."

The statement halted Bruce in his struggle and made him crane his head to his left. There was an unusual, haggard tone in his old friend's voice. As Bruce tried to make eye contact with him, Alfred stood up from the edge of the bed and turned away.

Bruce exhaled and swallowed a lump. His dry throat ached and he coughed.

"No nightmare..." he muttered after a moment, sitting down on the edge of his bed. He had truly been locked up in a morgue locker after all. Like dead meat. Though he was not dead, was he?

A few feet from the bed, his hands in his pockets in a very unkempt way for the usually straight standing butler, Alfred pivoted slowly and briefly looked at Bruce before his eyes became elusive again. Seeing his old friend so shell-shocked made Bruce bury his face in his hands and stare at the rug covering the cold marble floor at the bottom of his bed. Was Freeze still running free?

"What happened, Alfred?" he asked, eyes still looking down.

"From where do I start, sir?"

Bruce's mouth twitched. He could hear in the "sir" that Alfred was back in his role of butler. Not for the first time, he envied his old friend's ability to get a grasp on himself. This capacity to clench his teeth, to keep his emotions at bay and focus back on business.  _Business only._ Bruce nodded to himself and after letting out a long sigh, he raised his head, saying, "From the point I can't remember."

"Then what is the last thing you do remember, sir?"

Bruce winced. That was a bad question.

_Jumping over a dead body in a morgue to stop a serial killer from dissecting a still living woman._

A wave of nausea made him look down at the ground again and take a few deep breaths.

"Take a little time to refresh yourself, master Bruce, then join me in the kitchen for a light meal."

Though the idea of eating was all but appealing right now, Bruce nodded, grateful for his old friend to let him have some privacy to deal with his emotions.

A few minutes after Alfred had disappeared, Bruce exhaled deeply and finally found the will to stand up. Weary, he headed toward his bathroom and turned on the shower, carefully avoiding looking at his reflection in the wide mirror above the sinks.

Springing from multiple jets, the downpour of hot water that struck his body and fell on his head slowly forced his stiff neck and muscles to relax. But the knot in his guts did not yield an inch.

Damn... this was sickening!

Fighting drug dealers in sordid alleys, arresting thieves, thugs committing an aggressive assault, spying on the mob, unofficially helping Gordon to dismantle criminal networks, none of that bothered him. He even enjoyed it to be honest. But setting foot into a psychopath's lair was something his stomach was just not meant to witness. He was not a profiler, and did not have any wish to become one. Slipping into the maniac's mind to guess what would be his next move now that he had seen the man at work was... Bruce clenched his teeth and took a few deep breaths again.

To witness such level of horror made him wonder if Ras was not right in his assessment that Gotham was beyond saving.

In the warm vapor that invaded the bathroom, Bruce's hands clenched into fists and hit the marble wall of the shower.

Was he failing in his mission to make Gotham as criminal-free a city as he possibly could? His goal, he corrected, shakinghis head and sighing deeply, for this slip made him questioned his sanity. Had Alfred not threatened to lock him in Arkham upon hearing the first syllable of this word coming out of his mouth? He was taking it too personal. He had to detach himself. In all wars, battles were won and lost. He had to keep in mind the greater goal and not to let himself drown in defeats. They were bound to occur, as Alfred said.

Feeling a certain balance reestablishing itself, Bruce turned off the tap and stepped out to dry himself. The towel knotted around his waist, he walked back into his bedroom. As he dressed and made his way to the kitchen, his old friend's crude words two months after Rachel's death rose again.

" _Bearing the pain of defeat is the price to pay if you want to play in this terrain, Master Bruce. Accept it or leave it. It is as simple as that."_

" _What would you do, Alfred?"_

" _If you insist on going out each night then accept it, sir. Because if you don't, it won't be long before you lose your life-"_

" _My life, Alfred? Without Rachel, it has no other meaning than pursuing her dream for a better society,"_ he had replied with a disillusioned voice, his gaze lost on the clear blue sky. He did not remember if the day had been cold or not. Must have been. It was in January.

" _One doesn't fight for a dream, sir. One fights for a goal. Or it is your soul that you will lose."_

" _I lost it long ago, Alfred. One evening in an alley."_

The cold-voiced statement had made Alfred grinding his teeth.

" _One morning you will wake up, Master Bruce, and realize that it was not true."_

Bruce had watched him turning his heels and moving away, leaving him alone to brood until late in the lounge. Until dusk had pushed him out of the comfort of the leather armchair and into the cold armor of the Batman. Into Gotham City's number one enemy's skin.

If only his father had not transmitted his philanthropic vision of life, maybe his choices would have been easier to make, his path clearer to see. Who was he? An anachronistic warrior or a monk? How could he force this paradox to cohabit within himself?

The sound of a conversation stirred Bruce out of his thoughts. Frowning, he realized that he had reached his destination, and that Alfred was not alone.

"Gordon," he said, nodding toward the commissioner.

"Glad to see you walking," Gordon replied, putting down a half-empty glass of Scotch on the counter in front of him, next to a half-empty bottle. To his surprise, the commissioner was not the only one drinking.

"No tea today, Alfred?" he could not help but say.

His old friend took a sip of his own glass before asking with a wince, "Care to join us, master Bruce?"

It was Bruce's turn to wince. "No thanks," he replied, sitting in a free stool around the counter, "For the drink, I mean. And no meal too, Alfred. I don't feel like eating just now."

He had not reached this point of detachment where he could eat and talk about sordid affairs without batting an eyelid. And the quicker it was done, the better for his nerves and his stomach.

"Did you recover the two victims, Gordon? One was still alive when I came in."

The commissioner frowned. "Two you said? Are you certain?"

Bruce arched an eyebrow. How come he was asking him if he were certain?

"Two tables. Two victims," he replied, sharp.

Gordon sighed and shook his head. "I found only one body. In the locker next to the one where I found you."

"Er... Thanks for your help by the way," Bruce said, nodding his gratitude.

"You're welcome. But if you could lose this bad habit, my nerves would appreciate it. Never been fond of those Halloween walking dead spectacles," the commissioner sighed.

"I'll try my best."

"If only the skies could hear you..." Alfred muttered.

Bruce almost chuckled. But the seriousness of the situation was weighing too heavy on everyone's shoulders and this weak attempt at relaxing the atmosphere faded fast. Where was the second victim? Her chances to be still alive were thin now. Deep within him, Bruce felt guilt rising. He had probably missed the only opportunity to save her.

Feeling discouragement threatening to paralyze him, Bruce stood up to pace around and get blood running down his legs. As he looked through the ground-to-ceiling bay windows, he noticed that the lights slowly came on in the surrounding buildings. A quick glance at the microwave told him that it was three forty. It was time to get prepared.

"The coroner called me earlier this afternoon. In his opinion, we're not dealing with one but with two killers."

Bruce turned his eyes toward Gordon. "What led him to this conclusion?" he asked, tensing up.

"A detail he had overlooked until now but that imposed itself with the last victim. The first two women and the one we recovered yesterday evening all had organs surgically removed before being killed by  _cryogenization_ , while the women in between were simply slowly frozen to death before being... well, being carved to look like the corpses in the Bodies exhibit. Clearly two different modus operandi."

"So what? We have one serial killer and his copy-cat?" Bruce asked, the feeling of being paralyzed resurfacing with the fact that they had in fact two men to arrest and not one. How could things worsen every day?

"Wait a minute, I thought a copy-cat only appeared long after the first serial killer had been arrested, setting himself on a mission to pursue the interrupted work," he said, puzzled. Was there any case of two killers operating at the same time? Maybe a partnership of some kind... No. Those men were solitary predators.

"Mind-boggling, isn't it?" Gordon replied, making the amber colored alcohol and the ice cubes swirl in his glass before taking a sip.

A shudder ran down Bruce's spine as he finally considered joining his friends and pouring himself a glass of Scotch.

"Master Bruce, if I dared to make a link, on which scenes of crime did the mob fall on you?"

Bruce raised his head and frowned, trying to follow Alfred's reasoning. He did not like at all where it took him.

"Not a copy-cat..." he whispered.

"Copy-traps, sir," Alfred said. "The mob used this affair to force you out to investigate."

A heavy silence fell in the kitchen.

"What proof do you have?" Bruce asked, as if his mind refused to acknowledge the logical conclusion.

At his question, Alfred stayed still with his eyes on his Scotch. Gordon stood up to pace around nervously.

"What?" Bruce asked, deadly worried. "What happened, Alfred?"

His old friend raised his head and sighed. "Vicky Vale has been kidnapped."

"What?" he exclaimed, feeling an electroshock clenching his muscles as he turned toward Gordon, "Didn't you try to protect her?"

"Of course, I did. The  _rendezvous_ with the mole worked as planned and I personally saw her safely home."

"Any clue where she is?"

"In the  _MV Kummura,_ sir."

Bruce's eyes widened. Luciano had Vale. He had warned her for God's sake! The mafioso would not let a journalist get too close to his business. Bruce bit his lips. Somehow, he knew her articles were not the reason, or at least the only reason for her predicament. And why would Luciano tell the police that he had kidnapped a journalist and where he was holding her?

"Wait a second, how do you know so precisely where she is?" he suddenly asked.

Alfred winced. "A message on your cell phone, master Bruce."

"A what?!"

"Obviously, your identity is not a secret anymore for Luciano."

"Thanks for stating the obvious, Alfred," Bruce said, now pacing around like a lion in a cage. "The inmate I took on in the infirmary?"

"A possibility, sir."

"Damn..." Bruce muttered. Was he truly awake or was this a nightmare? Maybe he could try to hit a wall and see if it hurt? Too tempted by the idea, Bruce forced his fists to relax. "The informer I saved, did he say something?"

Gordon nodded. "It was too dark for him to recognize the two men he saw putting down the body, but he clearly heard them speaking in Italian. At this stage, I doubt it's a coincidence."

Bruce nodded. So Luciano knew Vale was working with him on this affair, and in front of his dogs' failure to catch Batman, the Godfather had decided to use her as bait. No more subtlety. If you want to save her, come and get her in my lair. One way or another, this affair would end tonight. Deciding to put a stop to Luciano's activities as well, Bruce walked away when Gordon's voice stopped him.

"How do you intend to get into the cargo ship unnoticed?"

Bruce raised a curious eyebrow at the question and shrugged. "Getting in a trap is never a problem. To get out, that's where the challenge will be."

"By the way, sir, Lucius is waiting for you in the bunker with the  _Kummura'_ s schematics and a new skin."

"A new skin?" Bruce repeated, intrigued. "I wouldn't say no to something that could stop an armor-piercing bullet."

"My hope, sir," Alfred replied, adding as he turned away, "Master, Bruce? Please remember that you are still under the mandatory order to come back with a body temperature of ninety-nine degrees, no less."

On the doorway, Bruce pivoted to look at his old friend. As their eyes locked into each other, a faint smile appeared on Bruce's lips. Confidence was all he needed to see.


	17. Chapter 17

Batman silently broke the sea surface and treaded water to observe the  _MV Kummura_ docked a hundred yards away. In better circumstances, he would have whistled in appreciation of the striking view of the ship and harbor. But not tonight. Reflecting on the waters, the floodlights on the castle bridge and on the four pier-side gantry-cranes overhanging the ship's main deck caused the fascination one could feel in front of a raging fire consuming a city in the night.

A morbid fascination from which he forced some rigor and coherence.

As his eyes scanned the  _Kummura_ , his mind superposed the schematics he had studied two hours ago in his bunker with Lucius. He knew that behind the top of the hull ran a partially hidden corridor just a deck below the main, half-protected from crashing waves and fierce gusts of wind when the ship was caught in a storm. He would not climb on the boat from sea-side without being spotted by one of the five henchmen standing guard on that deck.

The movement of the cranes, stacking containers in the holds, attracted his gaze and made him frown with worry. He estimated that in two hours top, Luciano's ship would be ready for departure.

A cold shudder ran down his spine and a growing feeling of uneasiness tensed his muscles.

The  _MV Kummura_ was a Post-Panamax Max vessel. That meant that it had a capacity of at least four thousand shipping containers, if not five thousand. Sure, it was not the biggest cargo ship roaming the oceans - it was even a dwarf compared to the  _Marco-Polo_ and its sixteen thousand containers. However, this apparent modesty in size did not bring Bruce any solace. Like Lucius had said, if one stacked four thousand containers on top of one another, the resulting tower would be high enough to scratch the underbelly of a commercial airplane flying overhead. In a world of gigantism, modest was still big enough to hide illicit cargo or kidnapped journalists.

Damn. Why had he let her dig her nose deeper into this mess?

The answer echoed clearly in his mind. Because she wanted to help him out of his own mess.

_Look at where it led her. Will you repeat again and again the same mistakes?!_ he berated himself, ire rising.

To cool down his mind, Batman dived back into the dark, cold, murky waters to join the facing, unoccupied pier.

Despite the lights on his full face mask, he could not see anything beyond two feet. To make matters worse, a current was trying to push him out of his trajectory. While he unconsciously compensated the deviation, he focused on getting a grasp on his emotions by analyzing his recon. Vale would not be difficult to find. Like in fishing, there was one immutable law when one set a trap: the bait had to be visible in order to be swallowed.

Batman clenched his jaw. In tonight's case, it was just the opposite.

The only part of the  _Kummura_  bathed in shadows was its stern section, like an invitation to board, unnoticed, at that specific place. Did Luciano truly think that Batman would fall so easily in his trap? He had to find a way to board the  _Kummura_  by another, less expected side. A more dangerous one too.

Cheered up to have pinpointed the source of his uneasiness, Batman sped up toward the pier until a solid wall appeared in front of him. Silently, he surfaced, grabbed a large, rusted ring poked into the cement of the pier and hauled himself out in the night air. As he sat on the edge, he removed the full face mask that was coupled to the compact rebreather hidden in his backpack and clipped it to its side.

A strong shiver of cold ran through his body when he felt the burn of the wind on his cheeks, making him wish he could dive back into the sheltering water despite the detritus floating in the thin layer of oil beneath his feet.

Designed for underwater combat frogmen, his new skin was well insulated and reinforced by a layer of Kevlar that should stop a harpoon shot at mid distance and yet, it was flexible enough to allow him quick movements. But where his ingenious ally had surpassed himself were the fins. There had been a serious issue of quickly removing the fins if Batman needed to board a boat or take his mission inland. Luckily, Lucius had an ingenious fix.

Watching his boots, Batman pushed a button on the tiny device that clung to his belt and watched in amazement. At once, the kinetic fabric that had allowed him to swim quicker disappeared in the width of his soles.

_Problem solved_ , he smirked as he stood up.

Now he could walk without looking like a clumsy penguin or being embarrassed in his movements by adding more bulky equipment on his back for he was not willing to abandon anything. The surrounding water was still the easiest way out of a boat.

That thought made him wince in anticipation of the fight he'd no doubt be in for. Vale would not like to hear she was going for a swim in filthy, freezing water.

After checking that there was no living soul around him, Batman headed fast toward the closest crane and ran up the pier, concealing his shadow under the dozen perfectly aligned, four-legged metallic giants. At the end of the row, he stopped and checked the vast opened area between his position and a long warehouse. There was some movement in the distance. A fork-lift truck, moving drums. Bruce waited for the dock worker to put down his load in front of a garage door and drive away before creeping without a sound toward the warehouse.

Cautious, Bruce leaned against the wall at good distance from a service door, mistrusting the light above the frame. In all probability, the light was coupled with a motion detector that would switch on as soon as he walked within ten feet of the door.

The fork-lift truck appeared again.

Invisible in the shadows, Batman waited, and as soon as it disappeared, retreated a few steps toward the corner of the warehouse to move around it by the rear. However, the employee parking lot, also well-lit, forced him to a stop. After considering his options, he took out his new grappling gun, a modified harpoon, and aimed for the cornice on the roof, thirty feet up.

A few instants later, flat on his stomach, he peered at the lines of containers waiting behind the cranes to be loaded on the  _Kummura_.

A grunt of annoyance forced him to bite his lips. Out of the four cranes, three were operating and were brightly lighted. As expected, the one facing the stern section was dark. His instincts told him that one of Luciano's henchmen was sitting in the pilot's booth. But because of the heavy glass surrounding the crane's cabin, neither Bruce's thermal imagery or his sonar revealed anything. To his frustration, there were still limits to what one could do with technology, requiring a human to risk his skin to get the information.

However, he had no wish to be captured to satisfy his curiosity. For now, he would assume there was a hostile hiding in there, and that hypothesis made his current position vulnerable.

Tense, he checked that the way beneath him was free and jumped down so he would touch ground just across a small space between two containers. Without a sound, he rolled to absorb his fall and disappeared in the two-foot wide crack.

Controlling his racing heart, he leaned up against the side of a container and carefully listened for any sound. But the metallic clashes with which the cranes jaws seized containers were deafening and made it impossible to detect any footsteps near his position. The potential presence of dogs sent another spike of adrenaline through his veins. Was he suicidal? He could not hear nor see, but they could smell him.

Luciano's henchmen definitively had the upper hand on him now.

Doubly careful, he moved in the tight maze with the goal to reach the furthest crane. But as the seconds passed by, he took the real measure of the flaw in his strategy when the container he had just passed by was lifted in the air. As surely as a forest being cut down by loggers, the area slowly became sparser. His heart rate increased a notch again. Aware that his position would be indefensible in a short moment, he raised his eyes up and saw another grappling platform going down.

Acting on pure instinct, he got rid of his backpack and hauled himself on top of the container on his left just in time to slip in between. In a terrifying moment of uncertainty, he turned his head away, shutting his eyes and clenching his fist tight, half expecting to be crushed under two thousand pound of metal.

 


	18. Chapter 18

Holding his breath, Batman stared at the metallic platform that stopped less than one inch from his face. With a metallic clashing sound, the claws secured around the container and the following second, Bruce felt his stomach rise into his mouth as he was lifted into the air.

The ascent was short. With a jolt, the container stopped before sliding horizontally, Batman guessed, along the rail that protruded over the ship.

Aware that he needed to clear his position as soon as the claws disengaged, Batman craned his neck to guess where it would halt. He hoped it would not stop before the end of the structure in order to facilitate the boarding. In the other case, if the container stopped in the middle of the hold, he would have to cling on the platform to execute a second passage for there was no way he would clear the brightly lit area without being spotted.

Two hundred feet on his left, the top of the massive castle bridge appeared behind the piles of containers that were stacked directly on the main deck now that the holds below them were full.

"Go on," he muttered, tense.

But the jolt came too fast.

_Crap!_

Batman was about to secure his grappling gun to the platform when he realized that the containers on his left stood a good four feet away from his position. A furtive grin appeared on his face and thrill made his heart pound faster. The space was dark enough for him to disappear in.

Just as the final bump sent a shock wave through his body, he shifted to get closer from the gap. The claws disengaged. Still under the cover of the platform, Batman hooked up his harpoon on the ridge of the container and let himself fall into the dark recess.

Without a sound, he touched ground thirty-six feet down, and let out a short, satisfied sigh.

He was on board the  _MV Kummura_.

Invisible, he moved in the narrow gorge toward the sea and stopped at the end to cast a quick glance on the main deck walkway that ran all along the ship. His gut still told him that Vale was in one of the two holds on the stern.

Detecting no hostiles, he turned left and crept in the half shadows, skimming the wall of containers. At each recess between the stacks, he sneaked in the total darkness to re-assess his situation. However, in the last before the castle bridge, he stopped a little longer.

Flood lights bathed the bottom of the nerve center of the ship and too many windows had a direct sight on the deck. There was too little chance that he would not be spotted if he continued walking on the main deck.

He had to find a way around.

_Or below?_

Batman nodded to himself. Finally, the magnetic suckers he still carried on his belt would serve him, not to climb vertically on the ship as he had first designed them for, but to move horizontally on the hull toward the stern section, only a few feet above the half-concealed deck where the watchdogs were. It would not be an easy maneuver – no doubt his still healing shoulder would scream at the ordeal - but he did not have much of a choice. The hull was his only cover against the floodlights while the continuous clash of containers stacking up would smother any sound he would make.

Batman's eyes reduced to two sharp slits in determination.

A few minutes later, he was clenching his jaw and all his muscles tight to keep crawling along the hull like a leech. Below him, the light shimmer of water indicated that the void was not a bottomless abyss. He held on for fifty feet before risking a glance over the guardrail.

Thankfully, darkness was again ruling, even deeper because of the backlighting effect. After checking for any thermal signature and finding none, he hauled himself on the main deck and crouched on the metallic ground with a relief. While he caught his breath and massaged his hurting shoulder, he peered at the hold.

Okay, here was the trap. Less than thirty feet from him.

Two hatches allowed access to each hold, one on the port-side top, the other on the starboard's. Both gave on a series of narrow ladders and landings going down to the bottom of the ship. The next step was clear enough. If he wanted to get to Vale, he had to go down.

A stinging on his neck made him raised his eyes. It was barely noticeable but the crane slightly moved. Why? Batman hadn't felt any sudden gust of wind. Not liking the shudder running down his spine, he zoomed in on the grappling platform and gasped. There was something there, attached. A dark, moving hump that caused the swinging.

Batman's throat went dry as he identified a way up there.

Swift and rapid, he used cornices to haul himself up on top of the castle bridge and the radar watch tower. Standing up under the cover of a sphere as tall as him, he checked again the crane thirty feet away from his position. As far as technology allowed him to assert, it was still free of enemies. Cursing against the cold that hindered his dexterity, he then engaged a new harpoon arrow on his grappling gun and aimed at the rail.

In the icy air of the night, he  _flew_ the distance and climbed into the horizontal and vertical entanglement of girders. On his feet and hands, he crawled inside the rail to its edge. His heart pounded fast in his chest when he reached the two thick cables that held the massive hook holding the platform. But as he tested their solidity, a moment of doubt seized him as.

In a nightmare, the hook would disengage as soon as he would have set foot on the platform.

Prompted by caution, his hand automatically moved back to his grappling gun even if he was not certain that securing himself to the crane rail would be a good move. If moving fast was required, it would delay his reaction. Nonetheless, he did not have his cape. A fall would be lethal.

A sudden thought froze him. Could the crane be booby-trapped?

So many things could turn ugly. Feeling tension wrenching his guts, Batman let out a deep sigh and searched for any suspicious box. This kind of operation was not without risk and thinking he was in control was the worst mistake to make.

At least, save for the moving form under the platform, nothing seemed out of place and no movement around him suggested that he had been spotted. For now.

Mistrustful, Batman finally attached his harpoon to the rail and slid down at the platform level.

A few seconds later, he grabbed the edge to stabilize his swinging and stared at the moving hump, a bag held by thick straps. A bag that a small knife pierced from the inside. A bag that was talking.

"I'll kill ya, you and your bastard! I'll kill ya!"

As the threats of a slow and most painful death continued in Italian, shock and ire froze Batman on the spot.

"Luciano," he muttered through clenched teeth. What in hell was that bastard doing here?

A curse replied him.

"Who's there?!" the godfather barked.

Assaulted by a dizzying wave of questions, it took Batman all his strength to resist punching the bag to release his tension. Instead, he seized a batarang in his belt, and sliced open the bag further. Furious, he then stretched a hand to grasp Luciano and dragged him out, knocking the small knife from the godfather's hand.

"Where's Vicky Vale?" he growled while the knife disappeared in the dark hold beneath his feet.

"Batman!" Luciano exclaimed.

"Vale! Where is she?" he repeated, tightening his grasp on the man's hair and extricating him so Luciano's upper body was now completely hanging into the void.

Suddenly, the floodlights on the castle bridge switched on, blinding. Before Batman could react, a metallic clap sounded and the platform fell.


	19. Chapter 19

Luciano's cry of terror tore the night.

Tied to the crane by his grappling rope, Batman was powerless to stop the platform, which plummeted sixty feet before crashing in a thunderous racket that he felt in his bones. What in hell had just happened?

A streak of light burst from the  _Kummura's_ main deck toward Batman's position. At once, he triggered his grappling rope winding to climb back onto the crane's rail, and threw a batarang at the shooter below him. A flock of bullets sliced the air an inch below his feet. A cry echoed, electrifying his muscles with adrenaline, sharpening all his senses, making him more than aware of his surroundings. A threat. Overhead. As he passed by the hook that had held the platform, he distinguished a crouched shadow in backlighting near his grappling anchoring. Acting on sheer instinct, he stretched a hand to seize one of the two cables holding the hook a second before the tension in his metallic rope vanished.

Another burst of fire from the ground. Bullets missed his shoulder by a hair's breadth.

_Stay in motion!_

Pure thrill.

With a simian dexterity, Batman climbed onto the rail and swept down on the henchman, leaving him no chance to react by dealing him a terrible blow on the neck. The man collapsed. Not as limp as he should have been, but limp enough for Batman to circle his arms around his chest, seize the henchman's light assault rifle, and fire at the floodlights on the castle bridge and the crane.

Night reclaimed this part of the ship.

Pain exploded in his nose. Tasting blood, Batman let go of the henchman and staggered backward, struggling to keep his balance on the narrow, ice covered girder.

Gunshots burst again from the main deck. A bullet hit the crane next to his head and bounced away. Another fire. Burn! Right leg. Sweeping his support. Fall. In extremis, Batman caught a horizontal pole with a hand.

"Stop shooting! He's mine!" the henchman barked.

At once, the fire stopped. As ordered.

_Orders... Military? No. Mercenaries!_

As his mind established links, Batman switched on his sonar and climbed back on the rail. A knife sliced the air toward his chest. He dodged and stepped back, satisfied that his leg held his weight. The bullet had merely grazed him.

In front of him, the mercenary stood, ready to attack again. Batman assessed him at a glance and frowned. The man was as tall as Bruce, apparently as muscular too, and he was equipped with night goggles. Batman's brain continued to establish links. He had already fought against that bastard. In the forest in Sheal's outskirts, a few nights ago. He was dealing with the same commando that had blown Vale's car into burning debris with a missile.

Who could have hired mercenaries to get rid of him and Luciano?

Batman's eyes narrowed. There could be only one answer. Garibaldi. After getting rid of the current Godfather and Gotham City's vigilante, the whole underground would no doubt recognize his domination.

Damn. His night had just gotten worse. A mission was a mission. Just the reward differed between black-ops-trained mercenaries and the League of Shadows' soldiers.

Batman waited for the mercenary to be just above him. Then, with a stunning speed, he threw his legs over his head and kicked his adversary.

The man let out a cry of surprise as he caught himself to avoid diving into the hold.

But by the time Batman hauled himself on the rail, the man was already up, a knife in his hand. Batman's eyes widened and narrowed immediately to two slits. The shape of the weapon was all too familiar; the coldness of its blade pressing on his throat... Blood boiling, Batman recognized the man standing in front of him. It was Garibaldi's personal bodyguard.

_A copy-trap, sir._

Alfred's voice clashed in his mind like a gun shot in the night.

Batman felt a cold shudder running down his spine. In all probability, Vale had gone to the Bodies exhibition to search for Freeze under the apparent protection of the second killer himself! The other was still running free somewhere in Gotham. A flash in the shadows. The reflection of the blade piercing the air toward his head.

A carnivorous smirk appeared on Batman's face.

A batarang in hand, he imitated the forward movement, testing his adversary's nerves. The man leaped on him, slicing the air in a circle at eyes' level. Metallic clash. Rough-edged blade on slick batarang.

Batman let the knife snatch away the batarang. Fear. He wanted the cold-blood assassin to believe that he was scared. Blood aroused sharks; fear excited psychos. Methodic, Batman retreated step after step until he reached the end of the rail. A quick glance below. The sea, dark and cold. On the main deck, five stationary silhouettes, positioned all around the hold at regular intervals, aiming assault rifles toward him. Well-trained mercenaries.

Batman refocused his attention on Garibaldi's henchman, sparkles bursting in his eyes.

Cornering prey was no doubt a most thrilling situation for a predator. But luring a predator into a trap was even more exhilarating.

Batman switched his mask vision to total sonar and threw a small stun grenade at the killer's feet. Unaffected by the blinding light, Batman dived forward, dodged the knife that sliced the air above his head and quickly knotted the cut edge of his grappling rope around the man's leg. Out of reflex, the killer pushed Batman away with a kick. Counting on this reaction, Batman let himself fall into the void.

He fell, like Flass a few years ago in a dark and gloomy rear alley in the Narrows. A part of him almost wished for the killer not to be able to hold both their weights and join him in the crash. But he held. A few feet from the main deck, Batman's fall broke abruptly and he disengaged his grappling gun from his belt, hoping that the fast tension and sudden release in the rope would seal the killer's fate.

"Kill him! Kill him!"

Batman let out a disappointed growl upon hearing the cry to murder overhead. Hard bastard to crack.

Frozen until now by the precedent order not to intervene, the other mercenaries suddenly flooded Batman's position with an uncut curtain of bullets, forcing him to take cover behind a series of barrels. Bullets bounced around him. A brief pause. He risked a glance. A quick fire forced him to crouch again. Then, in a sequence, they shot a couple of bullets that sliced the air above him from his right or his left, using a pattern to keep Batman from guessing from where the next salvo would burst, discouraging him from moving a toe out of cover. Damned trained mercenaries. That certainly raised the challenge compared to Luciano's henchmen. Now he conceived how the fallen godfather had been uprooted from his throne.

Bruce's heart pumped faster. He could easily increase the challenge for them, just had to trigger the charges he had placed on the  _Kummura's_  starboard side earlier. But he needed to locate Vale first and so far, he still had no proof that she was on board _._

_The first rogue to appear, whatever side,_ he thought, focused, a batarang in one hand, a stunning grenade in the other.

Two shots echoed again. Batman frowned. They had not been closer than the previous ones. Why? Why had no mercenary appeared in his line of vision?

_They stopped in a secured position. Status quo._

Batman let out an angry growl. They knew what he was capable of after the forest and were more careful. From now on, the battlefield moved on the psychological level. He could do that too.

"Wayne! You are encircled. Surrender yourself."

Bruce scowled to his right. So Garibaldi – it was his voice – indeed knew who he was. How could the bastard, a perfect stranger to Gotham, know who was hiding under the vigilante's mask? Bruce's mind rushed to remember if he had met him somewhere. At Ra's al Ghul's monastery maybe? Batman felt doubt rising as the faces of his fellows soldiers appeared like ghosts in his mind.

"Where's Vale?" he asked, focused back on the present situation.

"Come out and see for yourself."

The voice sounded a bit closer, less than fifty feet on his right, and lower too. Garibaldi had climbed down a ladder from the castle bridge and was now on the main deck. A display of confidence in his superiority.

Batman did not move a toe. The probability that Vale was with him was well... one out of two. He needed the intel.

"Vale! Are you safe?"

"Yes- Arh!"

Sounds of struggle ensued as the journalist was forced to silence. But it did not matter. She was in close vicinity of the Camora's boss. At once, Batman triggered the mines he had placed on the  _Kummura's_ starboard hull and threw stun grenades to his sides.

A deafening, blinding, white flash lighted the night while a terrible growl shook the ship's entrails with a feral shriek, providing Batman with the needed diversion. While the ship started to list toward the sea, Batman leaped to his feet and jumped over the guardrail. Bullets riddled the air but lost themselves into the night.

Fingers clenched on the guardrail's edge, feet crossed, Batman moved fast along the hull to take Garibaldi's position by the rear. The mafioso's reign over Gotham was going to be the shortest in history. He would personally see to it. With a silent but boiling rage, he was about to jump onto the inclining deck when he heard Vale crying and saw her hitting the guardrail a few feet from him. Without hesitation, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her overboard before diving after her. Above her cry of terror, orders echoed and burst of gunfire followed, dangerously precise and missing by mere inches.

Batman broke the sea surface, deployed his fins and in a couple of powerful breaststrokes reached Vale. She panicked in his arms as he forced her to follow him underwater to move away from their spot of impact, which seconds later was hailed with bullets. Batman tried to protect her with his body and swam as fast as he could. But Vale's struggle intensified. To drown or to be shot. Left with a poor choice, he brought her back to the surface.

"Make no sound. Cling on me," he whispered, all too aware of the crushing shadow of the  _Kummura'_ s castle bridge slowly falling toward them. Sinking, the ship was lying down on its starboard side, causing containers to splash, creating freezing waves that submerged their heads.

"I can't... I..."

"Hold on," he said, activating the auto-pilot program of his small cabin rigid-inflatable operative boat, on stand-by mode a mile away. Narrow and long, it could drive through a tropical storm and had powerful engines to sail up any counter current. It was to the ocean what the tumbler was to dry land and was now honing on his signal.

Batman kept on swimming for both of them, his eyes anxiously searching in the distance for the thin outline. He was already losing all feeling in his extremities, Vale was shaking uncontrollably against him and the  _Kummura's_ weight was more and more palpable overhead. A brief glance showed him that the ship, inclined about fifty degrees, had its main deck partially submerged.

"Hey! Vale! Stay awake!" he said, rising her chin out of the water.

He pivoted to swim on his back in order to keep Vale's nose breathing air when the pointed bow of his boat appeared in the distance, slicing the waves toward them.

Relieved, Batman saw it slide and immobilize only a few strokes from their position a moment later.

He was helping the journalist's rigid body to climb in when all his hair on his neck stood on edge. Out of instinct, he filled his lungs with air just before a powerful grasp pulled on both his ankles, pinioning his legs, and dragged him below the surface as if a shark had just attacked him.

Batman kicked to break free, but to his dismay, combat frogmen's techniques had not been covered at Ra's Al Ghul's monastery, and his aggressor did not let go of him, but did just the contrary.

A powerful arm circled Batman's chest and another strangled him, forcing him to automatically gasp and causing him to swallow a mouthful of water. Pain suddenly seared in his left side, at his heart level. But thankfully the Kevlar layer in his suit prevented the blade from piercing through his skin. Using the peak of adrenaline to shake his numb reflexes, Batman stretched an arm above his head, grabbed the mercenary by his collar, curled tight into a ball and made the man roll over him.

They both twirled together in a dance that caused Batman to lose all notion of up and down while each of them fought to lock their arms around the other's neck. The waters were too murky to see the surface and his vision was blurred, his eyes burning because of the salt. But the good thing was his opponent suffered the same miseries. Batman ignored all his pains and focused on a fight that every fiber in his body told him was one of life and death.

Suddenly his adversary released his grasp and kicked him hard in the guts.

Batman bit his lips so as not to let go of the little air remaining in his scorched lungs. Realizing that the man needed to breathe like him, he gave a few powerful strokes to catch him back and forced him to stay underwater. He could hold twenty seconds more, maybe thirty. If only the sea was not so cold...

The mercenary reengaged the fight.

A sharp blow hit Batman in his right temple, hard, but not enough to cause him to release his grasp. As he twisted the man's arm in a lock, the mercenary's body went limp. An elbow dug in his guts but lacked any strength. Batman bit his lips to the blood and hold on for a few more seconds. But feeling like his head and lungs were going to explode, he finally let the mercenary's body go and swam to the surface.

The first breath was excruciating and exhilarating at the same time, leaving him disoriented. It took him a few seconds to slow down the erratic drumming of his heart in his chest and notice that Vale had slid back into the water and was clinging on the hull, unable to climb on her own. Behind him, the  _Kummura's_ castle bridge seemed frozen in an unnatural angle and containers threatened to join the flock that had already fallen; the night was filled with the metallic shrieking of the hull grating on the pier.

As he swam to help her, a part of Batman's mind that somehow was still caught in the fight suddenly sent a fierce peak of adrenaline through his body. Before he realized he was even moving, Batman pivoted fast and threw a batarang at the same instant that a blade sliced the air close to his right ear.

A cry of pain tore the night.

Flabbergasted, Batman watched Garibaldi's bodyguard sinking, the thin and sharp bat-shaped projectile stuck in his left eye.

Still on top of the crane when the explosion had rocked the  _Kummura,_ the mercenary had jumped into the sea to finish his job, had avoided drowning, and had been less than one inch from stabbing Batman in the throat.

Luciano's killers were choirboys compared to Garibaldi's men.

A moan of pain behind Batman snatched his attention from the dark spot where the mercenary had disappeared, for good this time.

Aching, feeling like all the joints between his bones had solidified, Batman lifted Vale in the boat and hauled himself aboard with a wince. A few instants later, the semi-spherical hatch closed above them, sealing the cabin. Eager to move away alive, Batman installed himself in the pilot seat and pushed on the accelerator.

Though his bunker was closer, it lacked the needed facilities to treat their hypothermia for he kept it at a minimal temperature and the small shower was not heated. The manor was further away but electricity had been reestablished a week ago in the west wing where his private apartment was. The boat was fast, and it took them less than a quarter hour to reach the under-sea cavern that sheltered what Alfred liked to call Batman's submarine base, though it was not extraordinary in itself, with its uneven, humid walls barely more inviting than Gotham's sewers.

The profiled boat surfaced in a tunnel, a canal that Batman had stabilized for sixty yards, to the point where it connected with the underground railroad system his great-great-grand father had used to save the slaves from the southern states. It was now half submerged by the river streaming under the manor's foundations.

Now in the safety of his lair, Bruce removed his cowl and his gloves, and cast a glance at Vale. Swaddled in the thick blanket he had placed on the copilot seat before leaving, she was staring at him, eyes wide opened, shivering. Bruce stopped the boat and let it slide to its mooring point, a metal ring driven into the granitic ground of the cave, half lighted by motion-detector coupled projectors around the docking area.

"Here we are," he said, opening the hatch.

With difficulty, Bruce extricated himself from his seat and set foot on the rock. Though he still had no feeling in his toes, his fingers felt as if a thousand red ants were biting them as blood started to flood in them again; the painful stinging would increase to his arms in a short while. He was about to ask Vale if she could move but when he caught her lost gaze, he bent forward and cupped her in his arms. A moan of pain escaped her lips. In the half darkness, he saw a wince of pain deforming her face.

Worried, he took her away, ignoring his aching limbs. He could do nothing in the cave; he had to bring her upstairs, and check that she had not been more seriously wounded. A part of his mind dreaded upon imagining what she could have suffered while in Garibaldi's hands.

As Batman headed toward the elevator, walking around bags of concrete, a flock of bats suddenly broke off and swarmed above them. He would not have noticed the flying mammals if Vale had not suddenly tensed in his arms.

"Where am I?"

Bruce smiled. "Home. Well... Batman's home," he said, opening the elevator's metal gate.

As the platform moved up, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath to shake a dizzy spell away.

"You can put me down."

"No, I can't," he whispered, slowly shaking his head.

"You're shaking on your legs. Put me down before we both fall."

Vale's body was shaking so strongly and her teeth chattering so loudly as she talked that Bruce chuckled.

"What are you laughing at?"

"Nothing. I'm just tired," he said, his teeth chattering too. The truth was, while he still had to carry her, he knew he could convince his legs to move forward.

A few, long minutes later, Bruce finally put her down on the tiled floor of his large shower, took out the jet and turned on the tap. He tested the jet's temperature on his hand to check that it did not burn before switching on all the surrounding shower jets. A dull numbness invaded him as he turned away the ones that were at her face level. Unable to stay on his feet, he collapsed on the shower's floor next to her. For the next few minutes, he managed to persuade his arm to rise from time to time in order to increase the water's temperature and get his limbs warmer. Vale's head pressed on his shoulder as she cuddled against his body, from cold or fear he could not say.

"You're safe," he whispered in her ear, attracting her closer to him, "You're safe now."

"I was so scared... so scared..."

"It's over. I'm here. I won't let anybody hurt you again," he said, brushing a long strand of hair from her face.

Bruce swallowed a lump as he pronounced the last words and increased the temperature again. He had not been able to keep Rachel safe. The pain of her death made a sob rise and he clenched his teeth to keep it inside. Silence fell. The sound of the water falling lulled him into a numb torpor.

_Rachel..._

A cough jerked him out of his slumber.

Still feeling cold despite the fog that invaded the shower, he absently increased the temperature again and closed his eyes.

A hand stroking his cheek made him open them.

Rachel's sweet smile disappeared in the mist and Vale's reddish, swollen eyes appeared in their place, looking at him, conveying an unspeakable mix of emotions. Sorrow, fear, incomprehension... She looked like on the edge of bursting into tears. Still feeling Rachel's presence, he could not keep a sob from coming.

Vale frowned and a tear rolled down her cheek. Bruce raised a hand and swept it, his heart missing a beat when she pressed her face against his palm, closed her eyes and relaxed.

There was relief in her sigh. Relief to be alive. She was alive. He was alive.

A faint smile appeared on his lips. Vale's eyes widened as fear flashed again. No. Not fear. Fragility.

Bruce shifted, uncertain how to interpret her glance, her green, shimmering eyes that did not leave him. Hesitantly, she bent toward him, her hand moving down his cheek to stroke his neck... Heart drumming in his chest, he cupped her face in his hands and pressed his lips on hers.

 


	20. Chapter 20

The elevator bell rang on the penthouse level of the Gotham Plaza Hotel.

Sitting in one of the comfortable black leather sofas in the lounge, Alfred checked his cell phone a last time. In the darkness, the screen's bluish backlighting briefly reflected on his face. He shut it just as the doors hissed open. There was still no message from Bruce.

 _I am too old for this nonsense..._ he sighed, straightening himself as the lights came on.

Margaret Thomson, head of the merchant fleet of Wayne Enterprise, was standing in front of him.

"Good evening, Maggie," he said, studying the flurry of emotions appearing on her face. Her lips, slightly twitching in surprise; her eyes, widening with fear, a brief panic mutating into doubt as she frowned; mistrust and then, control, her usual, unreadable, poker face. How could have he misjudged that woman so badly? Old age had obviously softened his wit.

"What are you doing here, Pennyworth? Did he send a message to you too?" she asked, suddenly relaxing.

"Do you mean Earl?"

She nodded.

"Please, have a seat, Maggie," Alfred replied coldly, insisting on using her first name to shatter any thought that she was in control. With a wave of his arm, he showed her the sofa just next to his, that with two others, was arranged around an oblong coffee table. A very comfy place to have a little chit-chat.

As he watched her obeying, he noticed that though his heart rhythm had slightly increased, his hands were not shaking, and he knew that his unblinking eyes reflected nothing more than what he wished her to see. The gravity of the situation. "We have to talk."

"He must have been delayed," she said, sitting down while he got up and headed toward the bar. "Do we wait for him?"

"Earl will not join us. He is unfortunately occupied by rather important matters and so he asked me to sort everything out. May I offer you a drink? Scotch? Cognac?"

"No, thank you. I can't believe that you're in, I mean... I knew there was someone else involved but... How could you?"

Alfred looked down as he poured himself a glass of whiskey. He wished for something stronger at the moment.

"Earl was not the only that saw his world turned upside down by Bruce Wayne's return."

"Oh. Right. What a surprise it was for everyone. So. It was you, I guess, who-"

"Best not to ask too many questions," Alfred cut, pivoting on his heels. Though her question made him wonder how stretched was the net around Bruce. And that annoyed him. Maybe Maggie would not possess enough knowledge to make Earl's plan capsize. At least, she was a start, a crack that he intended to exploit to its full potential. "We are in trouble."

"What do you mean?"

Alfred took a sip of his own glass, heaved a deep sigh and sat down on the arm of the sofa, deliberately letting a few seconds pass by before adding, "Two nights ago, you were seen talking to a journalist from the  _Globe and Mail_ , Vicky Vale is her name."

Maggie shrugged. "And what? She asked for juicy details about Bruce Wayne's life. I was more than happy to give some to her. Was this not part of my contract? Let me tell you, if someone's in trouble, then it's this irresponsible, hopelessly dumb, party-animal that calls himself the Prince of Gotham. Prince of Tequila and coke might be closer to reality if I might add."

"Well, unfortunately, an insider in GCPD warned us that Miss Vale is in fact working with the Federals in charge of this party-animal's case."

"You must be kidding me," she muttered, standing up to pace around.

Alfred shifted slightly in order to catch her eyes and coldly stared at her, silently saying  _Do I look like I am kidding?_ "Now it is only a matter of time before the Feds comes to your place to ask more questions."

Maggie froze on spot, raised a hand to her head and muttered a curse.

Alfred watched at her looking nervously all around.

He knew exactly how she felt right now. Her guts wrenching and her throat drying; panic rising like bile to burn her plans for her future down to ashes. She lowered her head and stared at her feet, as if contemplating her world crumbling around her. A first catastrophic answer that would make her legs shake.

Aware of the effect his move would have, Alfred stepped forward and grabbed her arm.

Maggie jumped and tensed under his grasp. When she turned her eyes toward him, he read a flash of fear and anger in them. With a sudden surge in energy, she freed herself. Pride. Arrogance. A second answer to the blow he had just given to her. She was stronger than he had thought and still had some fight in her.

"You should sit down, Maggie, you look about to collapse," he said with a smile that was not as forced as he would have liked.

"I'll take that drink finally. Is there brandy somewhere?"

Alfred nodded and moved back toward the bar to pour her a glass. Then, he came back to her, and after handing the glass, he walked around the sofa to stop just behind her back, causing her to twist and shift to keep him in her line of vision.

"Stop this playing, Pennyworth," she said, after a moment. "What tells me that you are not double-crossing us? Let's call Earl to have this doubt eased."

"Fair enough," Alfred replied, taking out his cell phone from his pocket. After entering the PIN, he handed it to her.

She put down her glass but did not take it.

"I'll use my own if you don't mind."

"Not at all," he said, putting down his device on the glass top of the table before sitting down in the sofa facing her.

He stared at her, confident, as she dialed the call. A few seconds later, a buzz sounded between them. Alfred kept himself from smiling as she looked down in disarray at his cell phone vibrating on the glass top of the table.

With a deep sigh of annoyance, he seized his still buzzing phone and shut it down. "The Feds are not stupid, Maggie. Neither is the judge seeing Mr. Wayne's case. Since the beginning, Mr. Wayne has claimed that someone internal is plotting against him. No matter what you said to Miss Vale, you just brought proof that he is telling the truth at least on one topic, and that will push the judge to ask for a complementary inquiry."

Though he hated this, Alfred hardened his gaze on her. Now was the time to threaten Earl's mole with retaliation and see if she had been smart enough to build safeguards.

"Do you see the problem now, Maggie?"

"What does Earl want?"

"Let me tell you what you don't want first. You don't want the Feds knocking at your door. For now, you are safe in this suite. A taxi will pick you up at six tomorrow morning for the airport. A ticket for Hong-Kong will wait for you at Delta's desk. Once there, you'll take a flight for Jakarta. Someone will wait for you there and will take you in a safe place-"

"No! I have no intention of leaving Gotham whatsoever," she said, standing up suddenly. "If the Feds come, I will tell them nothing. Earl will have to trust me on that point. If he thinks I'm gonna give up all my life and fly away to a country with no extradition treaty with the US, he's mistaken. Damn his paranoia..."

"I am afraid, Maggie, that to stay or not is not in your power to decide," Alfred replied, standing up too.

He was not as impressive as he was in his twenties, but he was still tall enough for the purpose. After all, Maggie was not in her prime either.

"What? What are you doing?"

Alfred stayed silent. The sharpest threats did not need a lot of words.

"Are you... Is Earl afraid that I would... cooperate with the FBI?"

"It is an unfortunate possibility that he cannot ignore."

"Then, Pennyworth, let me give you a message. I'm not an insignifiant puppet like Coleman Reese. If I disappear for more than forty-eight hours, his Neapolitan friends will have to find another fleet to carry their dirty business all around the world while he will spend at least the next two centuries behind bars."

Alfred's eyes widened in genuine surprise. Had he heard right?

"You gathered and kept proof of all this, Maggie?"

"You can count on it," she said, walking by him to head toward the door.

Alfred made no move to stop her this time. He did not have to. She had not reached the hallway before hurried footsteps sounded from the corridor and men appeared to block her path. Alfred heard her protest vehemently as FBI agent Johnson walked in and read her her rights.

His teeth still clenched by what had just happened, Alfred turned to see the ex-head of the merchant fleet and Earl's unexpected mole being arrested and taken away, while Lucius entered at his turn and stopped next to her, obviously deeply shocked.

"One last question, Maggie," he said, using a sharp tone that Alfred had never heard from him, "Why did you help Earl trap Mr. Wayne?"

Maggie chuckled. "Because Thomas merited better than him. He would be ashamed to see what his son has become. If Bruce is truly his anyway."

"Take her to my office. I'll join you in a minute," Johnson said. "Mr. Pennyworth? May I have a word with you, please?"

Alfred nodded. "It has been a long day, officer," he said, collapsing in the sofa. He was feeling now the weight of each year and even more.

"You are very skilled," Johnson said. "I could certainly use your services in some of my other cases."

Alfred raised a dubious eyebrow. "I doubt Washington would approve of serving alcohol to suspects in the interrogation room."

Johnson chuckled. "How did you know that she would have embarrassing documents?"

"Let's say that I'm old enough to know that one doesn't play this kind of game without covering one's own ass."

"Interesting point of view. I'll keep it in mind for further notice," Lucius said once the Feds had left the place. "You truly scared me, you know. I'm glad I never had to know you before Thomas employed you."

"But you might. One said that Alzheimer's was like falling back into childhood," he said, deadpan.

"Well, if it comes to that then I guess you'll have the perfect nanny looking out for you," Lucius replied, patting him on the shoulder.

Alfred chuckled sadly. If it came to that, he certainly did not wish for Bruce to have to take care of him. Thinking of his young master, Alfred took out his cell phone, checked the messages, and smiled.

"They are both safe."

Lucius sighed and smiled. "Good to hear. It looks like the horizon is finally clearing up. It would have been a shame if Bruce had to sell this hotel. Always been my favorite."

After wishing each other a good night of well needed rest in the hotel parking lot, Alfred installed himself behind his Jaguar's wheel. Despite what he had just told his friend, his night was far from finished, and his relief was only partial. There was one last thing he had to do. One last duty. And the problem was, he was not sure anymore if it was one he could still perform. But he owed it to Bruce. For all his mistakes.

Bruce's ten-year old face appeared in his memory, smiling from one ear to another as he stamped on his feet, pleading to take the train.

He should have stand up and say no to Thomas Wayne. No matter how disappointed the little boy would have been.

Two heavy, cold gravestones crushed all his doubts.

Alfred stretched his arms in front of him. His hands were still not shaking. They never had; they never would.

Determined, he ignited the engine.


	21. Chapter 21

Victor Fries stood in front of the ashes of his house, his eyes glazed with memories.

Their life, when they had bought the three story cottage was so idyllic, full of promises. A perfect dream. They had chosen the house for the baby's bedroom: luminous, spacious, all the charm of ancient Victorian mansions, with high ceiling and paneling around the doors and windows. They had painted it in soft cream tones to create the cotton atmosphere they wished to welcome their first child.

All was so quiet and promising, despite some difficulty during the first months of pregnancy, more trying than they had imagined possible. The doctor reassured them. It was normal and expected. Morning sickness would stop by itself after three months.

Only it never had.

When other expecting mothers would gain weight, she had lost pound after pound.

As Fries walked in what had been their vast kitchen and stopped in front of the charred remains of the central island, he remembered the day he had seen her, standing straight at the sink, holding an empty dish washing liquid bottle in one hand, a sponge in the other, all the green soap dripping on her bare feet.

When he had managed to jerk her out of her trance, she had turned a tired smile toward him and asked why was he home so early, before noticing the mess. He remembered the fear widening her hazel eyes as they fell on the clock.

Epilepsy.

The diagnosis still felt like a punch to the sternum.

The crisis got worse and worse, forcing her hospitalization at the beginning of her fifth month. And then all seemed, as much as possible, under control, enough to go back home under a strict order to lie in bed all day.

Fries turned his gaze toward the kitchen's door, and walked out with a weary step. There was nothing left of the stairs. The whole second floor had burnt, leaving a gaping hole through which the icy rain and the wind rushed in. A gaping hole. Such was his life now, with pain rushing in.

Another crisis had befallen them, the one that they had feared from the start. It had happened while she was coming down the stairs one day. The inexpressible guilt in her eyes, that she could not stay in her bed all day long... he had tried to reassure her, to convince her that he still loved her. That now they would be able to treat her epilepsy and when it was stable, they would try again.

Fries closed his eyes and crumbled on the spot.

The vomiting should have ended. But it had not, and other symptoms had appeared.

Lethargy, nightmares, confusion, headaches... even he had not thought to second guess the psychologist who had stuffed his wife with antidepressants while he let himself get more and more preoccupied with difficulties at work. Why had he not seen the mistake in the diagnostic when the symptoms only got worse and worse? Her body is resisting the treatment, the doctor said, adjusting, changing the medication.

All these months lost, during which her condition deteriorated slowly.

Fries struck the ice-covered tiled floor with both his fists out of rage and despair, and pain as he remembered finding her comatose in the backyard, under the arbor on which she tried to grow a climbing rose bush in earth full of weeds.

In her third stay in Gotham General, she had then been diagnosed with kidney and liver failure. And still, she did not receive the proper diagnosis. Not until a cerebral edema put a name on her illness and a line through her name on the transplant waiting list.

Multiple organ failure. Reye's syndrome in its last stage.

A condition so rare in adults that nobody had thought about it until it was too late.

A sob strangled in Fries's throat and tears rolled down his cheeks as the doctor's stern voice sounded in his mind again, asking him where he wanted her to live her last weeks because they were short of beds since the last budgetary cut. Fries clenched his hands again, almost feeling his fist connecting with the bastard's chin again.

How could he have accepted to give up on her so quickly?

How could he have accepted watching her die without attempting to save her, to do everything to save her, even if he had to dive into the depths of darkness and seal a pact with the devil itself like Faust... nothing mattered as long as he saved her.

But the Batman had to cross his path! This so-called vigilante who wanted to correct every wrong in the world with his fists and ridiculous costume. Of all the cities in the US, that freak had to live here...

Pure rage rose within him. He had damned his soul, stooped down to the most despicable crimes to heal his wife. For what?

_For nothing because of him!_

She would have survived if that helicopter had not crashed on their house, destroying all the medical equipment, forcing him to seek refuge in that creepy mortuary with the donor, only to be ensnared like an animal, driven out like a rat, and executed... executed... The Batman's last intervention had worn out her last strength, her last breath, and his with it.

As a paralyzing sorrow grasped him, strangling his breath in his throat, Fries fell on his knees and cried.

How would he survive now? he wondered as he raised his eyes toward the night sky, considering the unthinkable while the icy rain lashed his face, scorched it like thousand shards of glass.

How long did he stay there, prostrated? He did not know or bother. But after a moment, the physical pain swept all other sensation and made appear a certitude, a goal. Before Fries joined his wife, the Batman would taste his pain. All of it.

The journalists had nicknamed him Freeze.

Then Freeze he was.

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Ten days later**

The constant, mind-numbing noise of conversations that filled the court room ceased as the clerk announced the presence of the judge.

Jaw clenching, Bruce stood up and watched the fifty-year old magistrate, who looked more imposing in his black robe than he really was, sitting behind his promontory without granting the assembly a single glance. A cold behavior that found an echo in the Prince of Gotham, though probably not the one Harris sought. It took more than a stony face or inquisitive eyes to make Bruce uncomfortable. In general, his fate did not worry him too much. Whatever happened, he knew his lawyers would stretch the legal procedure for decades, using each breach the system would offer to spare him a sojourn in jail if necessary.

So, why was he feeling nervous?

Bruce cast again a furtive look at the line of cameras that broadcast his preliminary audience. But like the previous time, he could not see Vale among her fellows.

_The crowd's too tight,_ he told himself, not quite believing it.

And that was that awkward feeling, when one knows that one is lying to oneself, that left him troubled. A part of him sincerely wished for Vale to be here, while the other... well, the other was deeply relieved that she was not.

"Mr. Bruce Wayne?"

The judge's grave voice called Bruce's drifting mind back to order.

"A moment your honor!" A familiar voice echoed behind.

At once, every gaze in the court room turned toward the disturber and whispers rose from the crowded assembly.

Bruce bit his lips to keep a victorious smirk from appearing on his face upon watching Agent Johnson, from the Financial Squad, striding across the central alley, opening the low guardrail door and, in a few quick steps, reaching the judge's desk.

As Judge Harris put a hand on his mike and bent forward to hear what Johnson had to say, Bruce met his lawyer's tense glance, and almost arched an eyebrow in surprise. It was the first time he read a touch of nervousness in the old man's usually stony eyes.

A second later, the judge, obviously unhappy, waved both Flettmann and the attorney to join the impromptu meeting around his desk.

Bruce watched with interest as the talk turned slightly more agitated. The attorney briefly turned his head toward him, long enough to allow Bruce to detect ire on his tensed face. Hope suddenly made his heart leap in his chest.

Alfred told him that Margaret Thomson, the mole he had been searching for in the board room, had been confronted the night he had rescued Vale from Garibaldi's grasp. The next morning, Earl's body was found in a restaurant rear alley in the docklands, a bullet in the heart, another in the throat. Luciano's signature, though, as the godfather was dead, it was more likely one of his lieutenants who had executed Earl. This retaliation must have scared Thomson out of her skin, and she decided to cooperate against the Mob.

A discreet smirk appeared on Bruce's face as he now guessed what the Fed had transmitted to the judge: Margaret Thomson's complete confession. That Earl and Garibaldi had trapped Bruce from the beginning. The first to put his hand back on Wayne Enterprise, the second on Gotham's underground. His heart beating in anticipation of a double victory, Bruce watched Flettmann coming back toward him, his shoulders straight and face confident.

"Mr. Bruce Wayne," Nathaniel Harris took over when everybody returned to his place, "Given certain events and last minute evidence, I declare all charges against you dropped."

Bruce barely heard the gavel banging on the desk above a roar and a blinding downpour of camera flashes as a wave of excited journalists swept on him. For the next minutes, he shook the dozen of hands stretching toward him to offer congratulations while numerous ones cheerfully patted his back and shoulders. When he finally managed to get a view at the left corner of the room, his heart skipped a beat. Alfred was not there anymore. As always in public, his old friend had preferred to stay in the shadows of his butler role. He bet he was already standing next to the Rolls, waiting to open the door for him.

Half an hour later, Bruce eagerly stepped out of the justice court, surrounded by his lawyer and two police officers who were, to his surprise, joined by the head of security at Wayne Tower and a couple of his men as bodyguards. Efficient, they secured him a path toward the stairs and down the street where Alfred was indeed waiting for him next to the luxurious, black vehicle.

Letting Flettmann take care of the journalists' questions, Bruce dived into the cream leather seats, Alfred shutting the door behind him before installing himself at the wheel.

"Welcome back, master Bruce," his old friend said as they merged in the slow traffic.

"Thanks to you," he replied, leaning, eyes closed, against the warmness of the comfy interior. He felt good. Exhausted, but good.

"All part of the service, sir," Alfred chuckled, "And as good news never come alone, you will be pleased to know that the SEC opposed itself to Hickochin's take over bid for national security concerns."

Eyes still closed, Bruce smiled. This was truly the end of the nightmare. Let the sharks eat each other, his father used to say. Earl was dead; Garibaldi had sunk into the port's cold waters, and Luciano's organization was beheaded. What more could he ask for? Strike the iron while it is still hot. The Batman's next patrols promised to be interesting.

A series of furious honks jerked him out of this most pleasant thought.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Alfred muttered.

As the traffic immobilized the Rolls, Bruce craned his neck to get a better view of the street, and sighed. For now, he was an ordinary citizen caught in an ordinary traffic jam. Well, better take the opportunity to nap...

A concert of honks sounded.

On the edge of falling asleep, Bruce straightened. "An accident?" he asked, realizing that they had not moved an inch.

"Stay inside, master Bruce, I'm going to see what is going on."

"Not the day to break a hip, Alfred," he said as he pounced out of the Rolls, not leaving his old friend any chance to reply.

While sirens echoed in the distance, Bruce walked up the one way street, welcoming the freezing breeze. None of the four lanes of cars moved. Intrigued, he craned his neck to determine how far the traffic stretched, and whistled. All he could see was a packed crowd of immobilized vehicles on at least three, maybe four blocks.

"Damn..." he muttered, noticing that the street lights were all switched off. A power failure must be responsible.

Annoyed, he moved back toward the Rolls.

"We're stuck," he said to Alfred, explaining to him in a few words the situation.

"No, master Bruce, I am stuck. Lucius warned me that the board is waiting for you. You have a meeting in..." Alfred paused to check his watch. "Twenty-four minutes."

Bruce's eyes widened out of surprise. Was Alfred joking? A meeting already? Dubious, he raised his head and looked around to check the street panels again. They were at the corner between Fourth Avenue and Lexington Street. This was a fifteen minutes drive in no-traffic time. However, he would not have to bother about one way streets.

"Well, I guess a little exercise after these last days of procrastination will do me a world of good," he said with a smirk, liking the challenge.

* * *

When Bruce pushed the glass door and entered in the white marble lobby of the Wayne Tower, endorphins flooded his blood, causing a most pleasant feeling of floating.

At the reception desk, an oval, mahogany island with a two-inch glass counter that throned in the center of the hall, the security guard stood up, and welcomed him warmly when the lights flickered. Bruce raised a worried gaze toward the high ceiling.

"It's been going on and off for an hour now, sir," the guard said.

Bruce nodded absently, and resumed his way toward the elevators. But as he passed by the stairwell's door, he forked and rushed into the quiet well.

Thirty-five floors up and a couple of minutes later, he pushed the heavy glass door opening on the long, ebony table, slightly breathless but feeling better than he had in days. But his joy and good humor was cut short. Not a single of the leather chairs was occupied.

Disappointed – for the first time he was the first one in a meeting - he stepped back into the corridor and headed toward Lucius' office, wondering, as he did not encounter any employee on his way, if there had been a massive defection or worse, an impromptu, surprise party lurking somewhere.  _The lounge?_

Suspicious, he knocked on Lucius' office door, and was relieved to hear an invitation to enter.

"Mr. Wayne," Lucius said, standing up and moving around his desk to great him, "It is good to see you officially free. But why on Earth are you sweating when it's this cold out?"

"Alfred and the Rolls are blocked in a traffic jam seven miles away. I left them..." he paused to look at his watch, and added with a proud smile, "Twenty-three minutes and forty-six seconds ago."

"Well... with a bit of training, you could win Gotham's marathon next spring."

"I'll try to fit that in my schedule. I thought there was a meeting?"

"Postponed. You were not the only one to be caught in this morning mess. Half the city is paralyzed."

Bruce frowned. "What's going on?" he asked as Lucius switched on his TV on Channel five.

"Three major water pipes ruptured, two in uptown and one in midtown. They have literally frozen the traffic."

As Bruce and Lucius sat down in the lounge to listen to the report, a chopper view of Gotham appeared on the screen. With all the rivers white with thin ice, and the thick clouds of smoke raising from roofs, spreading a diffused fog above the city, the streets below, in contrast, looked like dark faults. Gotham looked like an ice field broken into thousand of pieces.

_As long as Gotham is not drifting into the ocean..._  Bruce thought, only feeling concerned because Alfred was amongst the castaways. To make things worse, the forecast now warned about a storm coming from the Great Lakes. Five to ten inches of an icy rain would fall this evening, and transform into heavy snow during the night.

_The pleasures of winter..._

Bruce stood up with a sigh. "If I'm of no use here, I'll go deliver Alfred from this nightmare," he said, as a city official now declared to the media that they did not expect the traffic jam to resolve in the next twenty-four hours, and that the trapped drivers were better off trying to walk home – the orange metro line was down to because of the power failure - or find a shelter for the night, even stay at work.

"Oh, one last thing, Lucius," he said, stopping on the door frame, "Is Wayne Enterprise out of the woods with the Feds?"

"Oh, finally you care?"

Bruce sent his old friend a reproachful glance that caused Lucius to chuckle.

"Thanks to Margaret's tight negotiation skills, indeed we are."

Bruce felt the last knot in his guts untie.

"You know, it might be a perfect time to swallow Reynold Industries," Lucius added, "they have a couple of interesting patents we could use."

_Here there be sharks,_  Bruce thought upon catching his friend's determined gaze. "Be my guest," he replied, nodding sharply in agreement. "And after that, sweep the dirt in the Transport branch for me."

"With great pleasure, Mr. Wayne."

At a decided pace, Bruce headed toward his office to change clothes before going down to the parking lot, and take one of his motorbikes to rush to Alfred's rescue.

As he drove between the lines of cars, he could not shake away a growling ire. Had he lived, his father would never have stood for seeing his company implicated in weapons trafficking, and who knows what else... Even if the man was dead, he wondered how many skeletons, buried under Earl's reign, would come to the surface in the next months or years.

All a sudden, his front wheel skidded, and sent his bike careening into the door of the car on his right. Abruptly jerked out of his thoughts, Bruce straightened as he bounced and hit the vehicle on his left before accelerating to keep control. After another close brush, he then stopped his bike, and let out a deep sigh of relief that an amused chuckle interrupted.

However, all this exhilaration was cut short by the sight of the thickness of the ice around the car's wheel on his right. It had crept up the wheel, consuming half the rim.

 


	23. Chapter 23

When Vale pushed open the door of her apartment at about ten minutes before nine, she was freezing and felt exhausted from her day. A thunderous applause and cries suddenly burst from the lounge, almost making the walls shake.

"For God's sake, Alex!" she exclaimed as she dropped her computer bag and her keys before rushing into the lounge to switch the TV off, imagining all the neighbors' complaints.

"Hey?! What the heck are ya doing?" Knox said, straightening up on the sofa. "Some of us are working, you know!"

Vale arched a stunned eyebrow as he grabbed the remote control on the side table glass top. That man had nerves! She was about to tell him not to take her for a fool but he was quicker.

"Look, Vicky, there's an interesting documentary about the guerrillas in Guatemala in the nineties on fifty-three that believe me, I would prefer to watch, but sadly enough, American Idol is on my to do list."

"You must be kidding me..." she muttered as she headed toward the kitchen, finally preferring to give up the fight.

"There's hot coffee waiting for you, and Beef Stroganoff in the microwave."

Vale stopped in her tracks, and smiled. Did he know that was her favorite dish? Of course, Alex Knox knew everything. That man was a living contradiction, his behavior always swinging between the one of a complete jerk and a gentleman. Like Bruce... Vale leaned against the counter, brought down by this single thought, that caused a shudder of ire to spread beneath her skin. Right now, Bruce was a jerk.

"Thank you, Alex. That's a very nice offer," she said, wondering how two men so different in life could be so similar.

She installed herself at the round table in the dining room, and began to eat, pondering on the question.

"So, the  _Globe_  still has power?" Knox asked, sitting on an opposite seat with a coffee.

Vale shook her head. "Nope... the power generators ran out sometime last night. I was at the university library most of the afternoon. Now, only Uptown Gotham has power."

"Hey! They refused to let me in a few days ago! I'll try again tomorrow afternoon. If you come with me, I might have a chance."

"Get up at six and I'll try to sneak you in."

"Six pm, that should be doable, no problem."

Vale chuckled and shook her head. She was about to reply that he was incorrigible when Knox's phone buzzed.

As he got up to take the call in the lounge, she finished her meal in a soothing silence, and was putting her plate in the dishwasher when Knox cried from the entry:

"Don't wait for me tonight, I'll work late."

"Have fun," she replied as the door shut close.

_Well... at least now, I can watch whatever I want on TV_ , she thought, heading toward her bathroom. She was too tired to watch anything anyway. And she was still freezing. A hot bath. That was what her body craved for.

A brief knock on the lounge door's window sounded.

Vale pivoted on her heels and frowned. Damn... she muttered, heading back into the lounge.

Her heart leaped in her chest as she slid the door window open.

"Come in, quick," she whispered, shuddering as a freezing breath of air rushed in. She stepped aside and rubbed her hands on her arms to keep warm as a dark, massive silhouette appeared in the frame, but stayed out of the room.

"What is he doing here?" the Batman asked with his usual growling voice.

Vale's eyes widened out of perplexity. She was not sure if the slight shaking she detected in his tone was due to cold or ire. Perhaps both.

"Midtown's out of power," she replied, choosing to answer his question instead of sending him away as would have been her first reaction.

"I know."

"Of course you-" Vale stopped, hit by a possibility that left her without voice for a second. He could not have?... "Wait a minute, did you just call him to make him leave?"

"I can't believe you did..." she sighed, taking his silence for a yes. "Will you come in or not?" she then asked a bit more harshly than she intended, but the man had nerves and that justly frayed hers.

_Still no answer... Why did he come for? Just out of jealousy?_

"Okay, stay out," she said, sliding the door shut and the curtains with it. Jaw clenched, she walked toward the sofa and crumbled on it, her heart drumming in her chest.

Stay out.

She had just told the Batman -  _Bruce Wayne_  - to stay out.

She meant stay out of her apartment, didn't she?

Vale sighed and put her head in her hands, feeling all her exhaustion crashing on her shoulders.

"Damn..." she whispered, raising her eyes to the window again, pondering on opening it again or leaving it that way.

What did he expect anyway? Bruce had not given her any news since he had rescued her from Garibaldi's claws. It was three weeks ago. At first, he was ill, right. Alfred had forced him to stay in bed and advised her to do the same for a couple of days. She did not want to know how the old British gentleman could impose his will on Bruce Wayne, especially when the latter had slipped, not without a certain mischief, that the principle of an excellent butler was to let think his master he was in control.

Then, when the next weekend passed and Monday came, freezing as always lately, and still she did not get any news, she thought it was because Bruce did not wish to take the risk to be caught talking to a journalist before the hearing.

But he had been acquitted six days ago now, and on his first visit, he found nothing better than to play the "get out of my territory" like a...

_A jerk._

_What did you expect?_ She asked herself.  _Flowers?_

Finding herself silly, Vale stood up from the sofa and headed toward the bathroom when her cellphone buzzed against her hip.

_Unknown number._

She frowned, wondering if she should take the call. Perhaps he wanted to apologize? Perhaps she should apologize for sliding the door shut. With a sigh, she pressed a button and brought the phone to her ear.

"Listen, I'm sorry. Maybe we should talk," she began.

But it was a strange voice that answered her proposal. "Oh! My mistake. Yes, Vicky Vale speaking. Who are you?"

A couple of minutes later, Vale stormed out of her building and dived into the freezing night. However, the cold was not the principal reason that caused the shudders. If the informer was right, then Gotham was going to freeze this winter. Damn... perhaps she should call Gordon on this one, she thought, raising her eyes toward the roofs, searching for the Batman's silhouette even if she knew he would not let himself seen if he did not want to be.

_Damn!_  If she could not do her job anymore, she might as well apply for a job teaching journalism at the university. And definitely, standing alone at the bottom of a crowded amphitheater was more scary than meeting an informer in a Starbuck coffeeshop full of clients in one of the most animated avenues of Uptown.

Her decision to manage this alone made, Vicky Vale hailed a taxi.

 


	24. Chapter 24

The Batman felt the blow coming but did nothing to avoid it. He merely cringed as Vicky slid the door shut on him.

Why had he not said anything? That he was not responsible for Knox's hasty departure?

_Why did I come in the first place anyway?_  He wondered, troubled. And that was just the problem. He did not have an answer to this question. She had misinterpreted his silence, and perhaps it was better that way. Made things easier. Even though the bitter taste of their relationship's ashes would stay long in his mouth, it was necessary.

_Safer. For her._

On this thought, he turned away and threw himself off the balcony.

A short instant later, his iron-studded boots smashed the thin layer of ice covering the ground in the alley next to Vale's building. Resisting an urge to glance up, he headed toward his new tumbler, parked two blocks away in the darkest street of the sector. The icy rain that had fallen for ten consecutive days had brought down the electrical network to its knees, making the engineers at Gotham's power plant beg for the skies to clear and the sun to shine so they could begin repairs. Unfortunately, far from hearing their prayers, Mother Nature seemed to have scores to settle with the city. That, or the city itself had decided to turn against decades of bad management. The last water pipe bursting had dived midtown into a freezing night by taking out a critical electrical underground conduit.

The Batman sighed. In consequence, uptown was lightened like in broad day light to consume as much as possible electricity, and thus keep the Sheal power plant from shutting down completely.

As he reached the new tumbler, Gordon's words echoed in his mind, swaying away his thoughts.

_Two killers on a boat, one goes overboard..._

That the commissioner admitted having a bad feeling on the matter was cause for worry. Batman slowed down, and came to a halt a few steps from his vehicle. His heart had just leaped in his chest. Why?

Who had called Knox?

His brow furrowed, he craned his neck to look behind him, even if Vicky's building was out of sight.

She had been the first journalist to publish a picture of him. She had been seen at crime scenes. At once, Batman pivoted and made his way back, his grappling gun ready in his hand. He was aiming at the balcony just a floor higher than hers when the silhouette of a pedestrian crossing the street twenty-odd yards from his position attracted his attention.

"Crap," he muttered through clenched teeth, certain he had recognized Vale's long hair and flared coat.

What was she doing? Half the city was paralyzed and it was more freezing than at the North Pole.

That definitively inspired nothing good.

Without hesitation, he launched himself into pursuit, but had to skid to a stop when he saw her diving into a taxi. Not liking this at all, he rushed back to the tumbler.

"Alfred?" he called as he installed himself with haste behind the wheel.

A couple of seconds later, his old friend's voice crackled in his ear.

"I need Vicky's cell phone localization asap."

* * *

Vale shivered as she entered the Starbucks Coffee, relieved to escape the cold.

After ordering a green tea, she climbed the stairs leading to the mezzanine, glancing all around her in search of the informer. The latter had not described himself, assuring that he would recognize her. That annoyed her a little. She was not exactly a public figure, not like Bruce- Can you stop thinking of him?! She berated herself, fuming.

"Hey! What are ya doing here, lady?"

Vale's eyes bulged out of their orbit as she almost dropped her tea.

"Alex? But what the hell are you doing here?" she asked, shocked, irritated, unbelieving.

"Waiting for someone."

"Was it you on the call?" she asked, dubious. Why would Alex resort to this? It made no sense.

"Call? What call?"

What are the odds? She wondered as she let his question on hold.

"Someone called me to give me crispy information about Gotham Charity Ball," he said, "Did he call you too?"

"No, not about the ball, about a threat on Sheal's-"

All the lights suddenly died.

While cries of surprise echoed all around her, chairs creaking on the tiled ground of the Starbucks as people instinctively stood up, Vale felt Alex moving aside. "Don't you dare boo me!" she warned, searching for her flashlight in her bag. Damn, where was it? Ah. Here it is. A woman cried on her left, and burst out in laughter a second later, joined by many others.

"Listen," a male voice whispered in her ears, startling her. "Tell the Batman I'm resuming my bodies exposition, and that he will be my masterpiece. But if you warn the police, be assured I'll kill your friend before they kill me."

"What?" she asked, fear clawing her throat and the flashlight slipping from her fingers as she tried to switch it on.

"Stay calm, please people, stay calm!" employees cried from the ground below, "Electricity will come back shortly."

Her whole body shaking, Vale finally managed to grab and switch on her light.

"Alex?" she asked, directing the beam all around her, half afraid to see a white mask glaring at her. Calm down, she told herself, calm down. But her heart only leaped faster in her chest and her breath shortened. Alex was nowhere to be seen.

_Resuming his exposition... bodies exposition!_

_Oh, my God!_  Vale put a hand to her mouth to keep a cry from bursting out. Freeze! Gordon had told her that there were two killers, that the mob duplicated the murders only to attract Bruce to the crime scene and trap him. But there had been a serial killer in the first place, and he was still running wild in the city. Had she and Alex just been lured here by him?

Vale felt tears forming as distress grasped her, anchoring her feet deep to the ground. She had to warn Bruce fast or Alex could die, but if she did it, Bruce would certainly fall in a serial killer's trap. And she stood there in the middle, manipulated, with no other choice but to relay the message, and that paralyzed her.

It took her a long moment to manage to persuade her numb legs to move, but when she did, she rushed down the stairs and burst in the dark street, barely able to keep herself from falling to her knees. The cold seized her and she realized that she had been holding her breath. But the icy air she gulped down was rejected by her lungs in a raspy cough, and made her dizzy. Before she knew it, she was half bent over the iron guardrail bordering the little terrace, retching.

Something heavy fell on her shoulder.

Vale screamed.

 


	25. Chapter 25

"Calm down, it's only me," Batman growled as Vale struggled against him.

Less than two blocks away, red and blue lights from a GCPD patrol flashed while drivers, surprised by the sudden darkness that had swallowed the road in front of their wheels, slammed on their brakes to avoid collisions. The dozens of beams from the cars were like flashlights in a urban forest.

"You've got to-"

"Not here. Come. Quick," Batman said to Vale, dragging her in a perpendicular street that was deserted at the moment, but would not stay so very long. They were in one of the most frequented parts of Uptown Gotham.

"You have to help Alex!" she cried as she suddenly came to a halt in the middle of the way and grabbed his cape to force him to stop as well.

Alarmed by the echo of her voice, Batman cast a quick glance at the main avenue and saw a car turning left at the intersection. Its lights brushed their position by a mere breadth.

"Please, help him..."

"Don't talk so loud. What do you mean, help him?" he asked, dragging her into the entrance of an underground parking lot, keeping an ear open to detect the long complaint of a car's screeching tires driving out.

"Someone calling for help here?"

A flashlight springing from the darkness joined the male voice. A low bark accompanied the probing light.

A chilling shudder spread through the Batman's skin as he saw a watchman emerge from the steep curve along with a dog, a Doberman by the shape of its ears.

Great! he thought cynically. Just what I needed right now.

"Oh, no..." Vale whispered as the dog barked loudly, an angry bark that echoed in the night, further attracting attention to them.

Despite the couple of cars that were now driving the street both ways, lightning their surroundings enough to reveal their silhouettes, Batman dragged her along with him, heading toward the Tumbler, parked four blocks away under the highway interchange, close to the access ramp for the bridge to Petersborough.

"Hey! Ya! Stop!"

Batman did not have to look above his shoulder to know the watchman had launched the Doberman at his throat. He accelerated their steps, breaking in a run. The buildings around them were too high to offer an escape; they needed to reach the train viaduct a hundred yards ahead. Batman took out his grappling gun while he ran, Vale following him without a word. Behind them, the beast suddenly let out a squeak and a metallic impact sounded. A car had just crashed. Batman frowned, and noticed that the pavement was wet, and that ice was forming underfoot. What the hell? he wondered, troubled by the rapidity at which it solidified. Instinctively, he grabbed Vale's elbow just as her arm circled the air toward his head.

"Wow!" she cried.

Alarmed, he pressed on the trigger a moment sooner than he would have wanted to assure a safe lock on the viaduct's guardrail, about fifty feet up. Closing one arm tight around her waist, he then secured the grappling gun to his belt, and automatically, the coiling of the rope engaged at a stunning speed.

A shot echoed and a freezing breath sliced through the air on his left. A second and a third shot followed as they reached the rusted guardrail. Shards of concrete struck him as he lifted Vale over it, careful not to give her too much of a momentum for a train was coming. He had just unhooked himself that a bullet hit the metallic guardrail with a clash near his hand, causing him to let go just as the concrete gave way under his feet. Out of reflex, he threw a hand to catch the guardrail. It let out a shrieking complaint and bent under his fingers, but held.

Honks and twisted metal attracted his attention beneath him. Ice paralyzed the traffic. But where was the sniper?! Still dangling in the void, Batman switched from sonar to infra-red reading to spot him while trying to regain his balance.

"Gimme your hand!" Vale cried over him.

"Crouch!" he yelled as shots echoed.

Damn it! He had not seen from where the gunshots had originated.

Vale's scream sounded just as the guardrail failed him.

Oh crap... he thought, bracing himself for impact. No! Not this shoulder!

He landed hard on a small delivery truck and bounced in the narrow space between it and a car. The shock took his breath away, suffocating a cry of pain in his throat. He needed to take a moment to regain his senses in the weak protection the vehicles offered, but the truck's driver door opened. Batman rolled under it, clenching his teeth to keep a moan silent. That was when he realized that water was still running above the ice, like a fuming, wild torrent, though unlike it, the boiling foam froze and projected sharp needles all around. His heart leaped in his chest as an intense coldness pierced his flesh and burnt its way right down his bones and inside them, making them ache as if a saw sliced him in pieces. Pain made him gasp for air, but his lungs refused to work. The impact must have completely blown his breath away. A primal fear then seized him; the irrational but certain feeling of being in mortal danger pushed him out of cover despite the fact he did not know where the sniper was. Maybe it was due to a post traumatic effect of his dive in Gotham's River and the fear of drowning if the water trapped him below the truck in an ice coffin; maybe it was something else. All he knew was that if he stayed a second more there, he would die. Before he could think of all this, his instinct had already weighed the risks. And they were not that bad: he had a chance out of two to rush toward the sniper or to rush toward a cover. A chance to escape or a chance to neutralize the bastard responsible for this mess.

A smirk distorted the Batman's mouth. He hoped it was the latter.

Unfortunately, no gunshot burst in his direction, and he felt disappointed, until he remembered the predicament he had left Vale into. Scared for her safety, he quickly reached one of the viaducts' pillars and used his grappling gun again to reach the deck. His feet had barely left the ice-covered asphalt when a sudden explosion shook the ground. From the corner of the eye, he saw the truck he had been hiding below being lifted up in the air in a fireball. The heat blast violently pushed him away. The tension in the cable increased as the coiling mechanism continued to pull him upward, and he feared the hook would give way. But it did not. Relieved to be alive, he jumped over the guardrail just as the explosion faded back into the darkness. In the screaming of cars alarms, he crept toward Vale who was lying flat on the ground, her arms covering her head.

"Come on," he said, grabbing her by the shoulders to lift her on her feet, his mind refusing to acknowledge the river of flames running below the viaduct. It had not been water. Could not be. Water did not turn to vapor in freezing temperatures, nor did it explode and burn.

"What was that?" she asked.

"A flammable cryogenic liquid," he replied, thinking aloud as he activated the Tumbler's autopilot to merge on his signal while sirens of fire trucks, police patrols and ambulances reverberated all around the city to converge toward them.

"We can't stay here," he added, grabbing her hand to snatch her out of her torpor.

Checking carefully their surroundings, Bruce walked along the rails for a hundred yards before they reached an emergency ladder. The imposing dark mass of the Tumbler was waiting for them at the bottom.

Under his stare, Vale silently dived without a word in the uncomfortable cabin. Worried, he took a moment to help her lock the harness before driving away, Wayne's Enterprise's last electrical prototype engine offering an acceleration rate almost worthy of his Aventador without the rumble, while the smoother exterior made it more discreet. All lights switched off, it could disappear in a dark spot; or be mistaken for a Porsche if he needed to melt into a traffic. The difference lay inside.

Twenty-odd minutes later, the shapes of the tall trees growing behind the manor appeared in the embedded screens covering the windshield, the side doors and rear window as well, offering a complete, sonar, infra-red, or normal three-sixty view of the forest. The drive, smooth until now, became rough as the terrain grew uneven and winding.

"He got him..." Vale whispered.

"Who got who?" Bruce asked, casting her a worried glance. She had been so silent until now that he thought she had fallen asleep.

"Freeze got Alex."

"Knox?"

"He trapped us, led us to the coffee... But it was to get to you... Like Garibaldi."

Batman took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. So Freeze had somehow learned of the mafioso's plan to get rid of him. And here again, Vale had been associated with him.

"You must leave the city. I'll ask Gordon if he can provide you with a cover identity like the Feds do for -"

"I'm not leaving."

"You don't have a choice."

"I do. We always have a choice."

"Between life and death?" he grumbled, before adding: "You don't need to give up journalism. You could ask for a transfer to a European bureau."

Vale sighed heavily and replied nothing. Bruce hoped that it was because she considered his option.

"If something happens to Alex..."

Her words died in her throat, but he heard them loud and clear. She felt responsible. She was not of course – if there was someone responsible for Knox's death, it was him, though now, his mind would not let him go there because what had happened was not important right now. Finding a way to save Knox, if it was still possible, was what mattered and needed all his attention. However, he knew how guilt had a bad habit of worming its way into a mind and establishing its quarters for a long time, feeding on one's soul, no matter how rational one was.

"It wasn't your fault," he told her, knowing that it would do little to soothe her. It had done little for him.

Ducard had tried to teach him to clear his conscious from guilt's sharp claws by projecting the responsibility of his parents' death onto his father's head, as if guilt was a virus that could be transmitted to another host; Alfred had tried to make him accept that life contained a certain part of uncontrollable potential that could happen for the best or for the worse; about the last, most people would then say being at the wrong place at the wrong moment; a stroke of bad luck. Only when you're a teen, it is difficult to be angry at bad luck, for ire needs shape and substance to throw punches at. From time to time, he wondered if the only way to get rid of guilt was to embrace the idea of fate. But that concept was too alien to him, and made him feel like a paralyzed old man sitting on a wheelchair watching children drowning in the river in front of him one after the other, telling himself that he could not save them because he could not move at all, forgetting he could cry for help.

It was on this thought that he pushed on the throttle to burst through the cascading waterfall that hid his lair.

The Tumbler skidded to a halt, and the door opened.

"Go upstairs and find Alfred. Tell him you're staying here until I arrest Freeze," he said, rushing toward the safety room he had built to shelter all the electronics from the damp, cold atmosphere of the cave. All he had to do was track Knox's cell phone. So simple, isn't it? Worry seeped in his mind like water under his armor plates. Realizing he was cold and needed to dry himself, he quickly entered his passwords and launched the program that gave him access to the major cellular networks around the city.

"Damn it..." he muttered as "no match found" blinked in green letters in the center of the main screen.

Knox's phone had likely been destroyed to prevent anyone from tracing its location.

"Master Bruce," Alfred's familiar voice sounded behind him. "Miss Vale told me you were fired upon again. Are you injured?"

"I don't think so," he replied, moving back toward the Tumbler. There was still a couple of places he could check before letting go for the night. The Bodies Exhibition building was one; the mortuary where he had almost caught Freeze another possibility.

But as he passed by Alfred, the latter suddenly grasped his arm, snatching from him a cry of pain.

"Please, sit down, Master Bruce."

Eyes watering, Bruce almost groaned with relief when Alfred released his tight grip.

"Knox's been kidnapped by Freeze," he said, "I have to track him down. Every minute counts, you know it."

"I also know that there are many chances that he may be already dead, and if he is not, that means Freeze will use him to get to you. In that case, Alexander Knox will live until he has served his purpose. That said, rushing out while physically impaired is stupid."

Almost more shocked by Alfred's blunt words than by the old butler's quick reflexes and powerful grip, Bruce stared at him for a moment before nodding. He surrendered.

"I fell on my shoulder again," he said as he began to remove the upper armor plates.

"A hundred-foot fall, I know. Will you sit on that bloody stool for God's sake?"

Bruce complied. "Barely forty, and a truck cushioned the imp- Ouch!"

Damn... he ached from everywhere.

"Obviously it is not dislocated but you should have an X-Ray."

"We don't have one," Bruce replied in a hiss of pain as Alfred removed his articulated back plate, causing the front one to disengage from his rib cage.

"Then stop engaging yourself in stunts or engaging an understudy."

Despite the pain, Bruce chuckled before letting out another cry as Alfred pressed on a sore spot on the right side of his back.

"What was that for?" he muttered through clenched teeth.

"To be sure you take notice of it," Alfred replied.

"That's pure sadism..."

"Try to remove your legs' plates and boots."

Irritated, Bruce complied but did not go further than his knees when a most searing pain shot through his back.

"How old are you already?" Alfred asked.

"Com'on Alfred..." he replied, squinting as a dizzy turn seized him, forcing him to lean a hand on the desk.

"Breathe deeply and try not to fall off the stool while I go fetch a muscle relaxant."

"All right, not going anywhere," he whispered with a wince, "Or maybe I'll lie down on the ground, ya know... to avoid..."

Realizing that he was talking alone, he stopped, and slowly lowered himself on the smooth, epoxy resin covering the concrete ground, wishing he could disappear in a mouse hole or at least voice command the lights to switch off so nobody could see him anymore. He had never felt so miserable in all his life.

 


	26. Chapter 26

Freeze closed the cottage's door shut behind him, and quickly lowered the blinds before switching on his lamp to search the house. He still felt enraged by the outcome of the evening.

His plan had not at all worked as he wanted. The Batman must have been stalking Vale, there was no other reason why he was on the street so quickly. The explosion of the liquid air tank had been meant to attract him like a moth, not to kill him.

The dog barking echoed in Freeze's mind, and he felt his eyes narrow again upon catching sight of the bastard's silhouette, dragging Vale away. At least he had chosen the right street. Freeze's fists clenched again as anger seized him to see the Batman slipping through his fingers. In a split second, he had decided to get rid of him right away, but how agile the Batman had been to jump off just as he had a clear shot at his back. The man had a sixth sense. He had to grant him that. But that did not matter anymore. The Batman had fallen from the train viaduct a couple of seconds before he transformed the street into a living hell. He could not have escaped in time, could he?

The thought was bitter. Maybe he should have allowed him to leave. Maybe after getting Vale to safety, the Bat would have come back. Patience. He had lacked the necessary patience. Reacted like an animal instead of thinking. And what was the result?

The Dark Knight had fallen too quickly, without feeling each second of his life bleeding away.

The only good side of this was that now, wrecking havoc in the Charity Ball was going to be much much easier. Slowly but surely, Amber Island would repopulate itself, to be never forgotten again.

"Please..."

Eager to find a few bills in the house, Freeze did not turn his head from the desk upon hearing the weak voice. The man was begging now. Like the others, he was afraid. And it was understandable.

Nora had been afraid too. Oh, yes... she had been so scared. And him even more. It was not only the cold; not only the pain. It was the terror; the terror of certain death. And this terror needed time to grow, to gain strength, to crush you from within and bend you to your knees. Begging was only the beginning.

Gotham was cold. But it was not in pain yet. And it was not terrified. And it was far from begging for the ordeal to stop, because the citizens thought only the skies were responsible for their icy torment, the sky and the mayor's administration. They were angered. And anger was not what he meant them to feel.

"What do you want?" the journalist asked.

"From you alone? Almost nothing," Freeze replied, moving to search the shelves in the living-room and between the books. The people who lived here had left for greener pastures without cleaning their mess.

After casting a quick look at his prisoner to ensure that his hands and ankles were still bound, Freeze headed in the kitchen and searched in the cupboards for food. He took two cans of ravioli from the one next to the fridge, opened a drawer to find a can-opener, and came back into the living room.

"Eat."

"How? I'm all tied up."

Freeze resisted with difficulty an urge to hit Knox. Deep down, he knew that Nora would not have agreed with his bloody path. And though as annoying as a bug buzzing around one's head, the journalist was not responsible for her tragic fate. But his articles, meant to harass, made their victims suffer. That's what Nora thought. She loathed his kind when her other colleagues at Wayne Enterprise's research department laughed or shuddered thanks to them, thrilled by each new tidbit of gossip. Nora was so disgusted.

"Let me go. I won't say anything."

"To talk is your nature," Freeze replied, suddenly sweeping all the papers and objects off the table with a cry of rage.

As he picked up his flashlight, the beam lightened one of the fallen newspapers. A deep disgust suddenly filled him as he look at a shot of Bruce Wayne, surrounded by four playmates, all drinking champagne, while on the facing page, on a picture of a grave was written "His childhood's friend's tragic fate buried in grand booze." Though Nora felt pity for the superficial, hedonistic playboy, finding even sad his escapades and benders, he had never liked him. Wayne's personal suffering was no excuse for his arrogance and thirst for power. Always more power and wealth for himself. His foundation had done little so far on Gotham's well being, a drop of soothing oil in a sea of pain; all his apparent good will stayed at the surface of poverty that plagued Gotham's children. And his recent clearing of all charges just proved how corrupted the system was. Maybe the journalist beside him was right after all to show the Prince of Gotham for what he really was: an inconsequential young jerk, feasting while others suffered. Like Nora. Like Joseph. Like him and so many others.

Freeze took out his taser gun from the pocket of his vest and stepped toward Knox.

"Tell me what you know about Wayne's comings and goings," he said with a dangerous smirk.

* * *

The roof of the MCU had not been used in a very long time. But tonight, it was one of the safest places in the whole city to meet. The building had run out of emergency power a couple of hours ago, and had been evacuated, leaving him behind to close the doors. The army had supplied a dozen generators, and more were on their way, but Gordon had dispatched them in priority to the hospitals, the county jail and Arkham, and the fire stations. With every citizen now using open flames to light and warm themselves, Gordon's strongest fear was to see the Narrows blazing. At least Barbara and the kids had found shelter at his in-laws in Cleveland until the situation came back to normal.

Freezing, Gordon resumed his pacing back and forth at the place where had stood the projector when he felt more than heard the Dark Knight's presence in the shadows.

"Yesterday evening's electricity failure was most probably criminal," he said, not beating around the bush. It was too cold for that. "The Uptown high tension circuit-breaker exploded. The heat was so intense that the snow melted in a hundred yard radius all around. As for the incident you were caught in, the charred frame of a tank trunk was found a street above the intersection with the Starbucks Coffee. There again the fire was so intense that we'll probably never know what caused the leak, or the driver's identity if he was still in, and even less the reason why he was there in the first place. Montoya is going through contacting all the chemical companies to see if they have a missing truck, but most have shut down their activities due to the bad weather. Any luck on your side?"

"No," Batman growled. Both the mortuary and the Bodies Exhibition's buildings had been clean. Freeze might not want to use the journalist to get him after all, and the latter had vexed many people during his career. "I'll see if Knox could have rubbed the killer the wrong way in an article."

"Personal vengeance? Maybe. It's worth a try at this stage."

Gordon exhaled slowly. They had so little, and with most of their computer network down, cutting the forensics from valuable resources, they were relying on the Dark Knight's capacities to investigate.

"The mayor's thinking about postponing the Charity Ball until the situation returns to normal."

"If he's speaking about electricity, there's no need; if he's thinking about Freeze, I too have some hesitation," Batman said. "Vale said he attracted Knox and her out using revelations about the Ball and a threat on the power plant."

"And as that threat was followed through, we can assume that the other is too," Gordon finished. "Dammit!"

Gordon paced back and forth again. If Freeze was really after the event, delaying it would serve nothing. Serial killers could be pretty patient and just go dormant in a corner until their prey arose again. That, or he could switch for another event. "I hate to say this, but I definitively prefer him to attack a room full of police officers than a cinema full of children."

"My conclusion as well," the Batman growled.

And as usual, the latter retracted in the shadows and disappeared. He had the confirmation they were on the same ground, and both of them knew what to do next.

* * *

Later that evening, Bruce walked out of his bathroom after a hot shower. Physically, he felt a bit more relaxed, but his mind was still preoccupied by finding a way to let Freeze enter the manor without putting the guests' lives at too great a risk. He walked toward the full wall wardrobe when a tickle at the base of his neck made him cast a look at the door of his bedroom. Bruce straightened. Vale was standing in the frame, wearing a low-cut white shirt above light beige leggings. There were leggings, weren't there? he wondered, staring at her, his heart pounding faster in his chest.

"Did you find him?"

Bruce took a deep breath and shook his head.

"No. I'm sorry," he said, turning away to swallow a lump in his throat that was not due to the failure of his night mission, but to the movement of the towel around his waist. Dammit, did she realize the effect she had on him?

"Alfred was tired tonight. He told me to remind you shouldn't forget to put on the cream on your bruises," she said, her amusement filtering through her voice, "I think he's playing Cupid."

"And does this disturb you?" he asked, feeling her stepping in the room and moving toward him.

Bruce slightly craned his head. She was less than six feet from him, holding a tube of muscle relaxant cream in her hand; her eyes and the faint smile on her face drove him crazy as he waited for her answer.

"No, not all all," she whispered, shaking her head. "Will you lie on your back, please?"

As she beckoned toward the bed with a small nod, Bruce smirked. His bruises were on his back; she must have wanted to ask him to lie on his stomach.

"Only if you lie on me..." he said, attracting her to him to kiss her.

The cream fell on the ground.

* * *

Restless movements and whispers woke Bruce up in the dark of the night. Grasping that Vicky had a nightmare, he stretched his hand to switch on the lamp on the night table. The sudden light made him squint. She called him, but when he turned back, he realized that she was still asleep. Sharing her distress, Bruce gently shook her shoulders to stir her out when he heard her beg, cry "no".

"Hey," he whispered, removing a lock of blond hair from her face. He wanted to call her but his words died in his throat as a feeling of uneasiness rose. Tears were pearling in the corner of her closed eyes.

She called him again. Bruce took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. After a moment of hesitation, he switched off the light, dragged her back against his belly, and stroked her face, kissing her softly in the hollow of her neck, hoping that his presence would somehow pierce through her subconscious and dispel the nightmare. Sometimes, he woke up with only a vague feeling of pain, just enough to know that he had a bad dream without recalling the details. So he stayed there, eyes wide opened for a while, an arm under his pillow and the other tight around her waist, cupping her small hand in his until her breathing became so shallow that he could barely feel it on his fingers. Only then did he allow himself to succumb to a deeper rest.

The next time Bruce woke up, a beam of soft light filtered through the partially drown curtains. He always let them that way in order to let the day wake him before Alfred. It did not always work, and this morning, Vicky's soft heat against his body made getting up even more difficult. Sighing, he stretched a hand to pick up his Blackberry, and quickly checked the mails and his day's schedule. Bruce winced. The board of directors wanted to have lunch together, and Lucius had sent him a reminder that his presence was mandatory. One had to strike the iron while it was still hot, and he needed to take advantage of each social event to bring them together around his leadership, especially if he wanted to convince them to follow him on the couple of high risk projects he had in stores about renewable energies. The failure of Gotham One showed that the city was vulnerable and needed new solutions in terms of electricity production.

Bruce put down his cellphone back on the night table and turned on his side to watch Vicky sleeping. Her bare shoulder attracted his hand and he slowly stroke her soft skin, captivated by her curves. He felt a shudder running through her under his fingers. Biting his lips, Bruce adjusted the cover close to her face, put a kiss on her cheek, and reluctantly got up to dress. Alfred might be just steps away, and he preferred to spare himself a singular situation.

But thankfully, he found Alfred downstairs, busy in the kitchen.

"How is your back, master Bruce?" the old man asked as he entered.

"Better, thank you," he replied, barely sitting down at the counter to eat toast and drink coffee, before getting up again and heading toward the door.

"Oh, Alfred," he said, coming back on his steps to pick up another toast, "I'll come back with Gordon sometime in the afternoon to see through the security detail again."

"Have a good day, master Bruce."

"Good day too," he cried, already in the corridor.

Bruce could feel Alfred's smirk on his back as he strode across the hall toward the garage, expecting to hear a sarcastic joke flying. But none came. And that was singular. Troubled, he slipped behind the wheel of his snow white Aventador and drove out. But he had not reached the gate that he slammed on the breaks. He should have told Alfred not to go in his bedroom! What had he been thinking? Bruce closed his eyes and chuckled, a bit appalled by his sudden anxiety. He felt like a teenager caught hiding his girlfriend in his room by his parents. And if Alfred might not have truly planned to  _trap_ him yesterday evening, merely opened a door, like Vale had seen it so clearly, his feverish behavior in the kitchen sooner had told the old manall he wanted to know about the outcome of the Batman's evening. Alfred would not go in his bedroom.

Feeling pathetic, Bruce sighed and resumed his way, a smirk on his lips.

His car was one of the rare places were he felt at peace, and as he owned most of the lands between the manor and the highway, eighteen miles away, the wooden, winding road between the manor and the long one, that save for a few sharp turns, cut across the countryside were almost his own private circuit. There, he could blow off some steam after a long business day, or wake up his reflexes after a long watching night.

The second to last curve appeared in front of him, and Bruce anticipated to accelerate.

But as the view cleared, he saw a van parked in the middle of the way. A van well too close to brake.

 


	27. Chapter 27

It was ten past three in the afternoon when the manor's doorbell rang. In the kitchen, Alfred looked up from his coffee and walked toward the entrance.

"Commissioner," he said, retreating a step to let enter Gordon. A gale of snow rushed in with him.

"We found his car, crashed less than four miles away, a total wreck, half buried under the thick layer of snow... barely visible."

"A car accident?" Alfred asked, his heart missing a beat and his throat tightening. The snow had fallen non-stop yesterday.

Gordon nodded, obviously shaken.

"He was not inside, Alfred. I think he survived the crash, and left to seek help, probably climbed his way back toward the manor. But so far, we were not successful in finding him. I wanted to ask your permission before extending the search further through the forest."

"Please do it," Alfred replied, his voice strangling in his throat. After a night at seventeen degrees, there was very little chance that Bruce was still alive, so did it matter if they stumbled upon the cave entrance? He had already searched it through of course. After Lucius had phoned around eleven yesterday morning to tell him to kick Bruce out of his bed, he had gone to the cave to try to locate his cellphone, to no avail. And all that time, he had been so close to him...

"I'm sorry," Gordon whispered.

His jaw clenched so tight it hurt, Alfred took a shallow breath and nodded his gratitude for all the efforts the Commissioner had deployed in the circumstances.

"After so many years... to meet his death like the average man, driving to work..." he whispered, biting his lips, shocked. Probably a deer had emerged just in front of his wheels. An innocent animal succeeding where mob killers and the police had failed... It was so incongruous that he did not know how to react. "I will go and warn Miss Vale. She has grown quite fond of him lately. It will be hard for her," he added, not able to keep his voice from shaking and his tears burning his eyes. He turned his head swiftly.

"For us all," Gordon whispered behind him.

Alfred nodded, and walked away.

As expected, the following night did not bring him the relief of oblivion.

Gordon's last report before they gave up until dawn had been negative. They had not found Bruce's body in the forest, not even tracks of his steps, though under the trees the cover of snow was not so thick. And that left him perplexed. If Bruce was not so groggy after the accident to be able to extricate himself from his car and walk away, but too confused to recognize the place and instead of going up the road toward the manor, wandering away from help, they should have found him when probing the area around the crash. Something was amiss.

So like ten years ago, Alfred stayed wide awake, sitting in the kitchen after convincing Miss Vale this time instead of Rachel to go to sleep. He moved to the study for another couple of hours, before going back to the kitchen where he stayed late into the dark hours facing his life, forcing himself to put his pain out of mind and to analyze the situation without his emotions adding a distorting glass. It was harder this time. So much harder. Too many ghosts pushed their way to the surface, for he had seen his sheer lot of horrors during his career, and during the last years next to the Dark Knight.

Emotionally exhausted, Alfred got up and headed toward the garage where he placed his hand on a palm reader hidden behind the key cupboard. With a smooth sound, the shelf on his right slid just enough to grant him access to a narrow, metallic staircase.

As he carefully climbed down the steps, which lit automatically as motion detectors detected his feet, he could not keep the Southern Burmese jungle from appearing in front of his eyes; the small village of Noung Htao in the middle of green hills, close to the Thai border; the third shanty on the right side of the muddy road when walking up toward the Buddhist temple; Maylee with their baby son wrapped on her back working in the vegetable garden across the road.

He saw her bright smile shining again as he came back to a place that despite his frequent absences he called home. Three years ago, her father and him had each other saved the other's life in Thailand, and doing so, the old man had gained a son for his youngest daughter, the one that wanted to go to the city to defend her people's right, to gather followers to their cause among other tribes suffering the same oppression from the government. She was seventeen, he was twenty-three, and caught between his duty to his country and her fight for her people's rights. She had refused to leave when he had warned them about the army spreading in the jungle to eradicate the government's enemies.

Alfred forced the memory away as he reached the heavy metal door giving access to the control center. Again, he identified himself with his left eye and waited a brief couple of seconds for the security software to open the door.

Why was he still alive? He wondered as he sat down on the chair in front of the computer island, and switched the system on.

Why did he stubbornly keep on breathing? It was as if Death did not want him, and instead left him suffer on earth as long as possible. Even now at seventy-eight, he still felt as solid as when Bruce was born. No arthritis, no sign of Alzheimer's or Parkinson's, no hypertension, almost no cholesterol... Lucius usually joked at his blood tests results that he would bury them all.

And so would Bruce, he thought, nodding to himself as his fingers entered the passwords. His young master was carved in the same wood as he.

Bruce had proved Rachel to be wrong; the first snowdrops would not reveal a graveyard either.

* * *

A voice was calling him in the cold darkness. Bruce forced his eyelids to open, but his sight was blurred and he could not decipher anything. There was something heavy on him, like a screed of lead on his chest and limbs. Pain shot through his body. Jolts... He was in a fast moving vehicle. Someone called his name again, but he did not recognize the voice. An ambulance? Darkness gained him again.

The next time, Bruce opened his eyes to a gray, blurry moving patch that slowly came into focus.

"Hello," a voice said on his right.

Bruce frowned, and turned his head. A moan of pain escaped his lips. He hurt so badly.

"Knox?" he said, his teeth chattering.

"Surprise..."

Perplexed, Bruce watched the journalist getting up from his bed and lay one of his blankets above his body, saying, "I asked for more."

"More what?" Bruce said. Damn... he was so cold.

"Blankets."

Make sense...

"What are we doing here?"

"Nothing cheerful comes to my mind," Knox replied, sitting back on his bed, wrapped tightly in his covers.

"Where are we?" Bruce asked, lifting himself on his elbows and hissing in pain. Damn! His back... There was also something wrong with his left knee.

"Maybe you shouldn't move too much."

Ignoring the advice, Bruce took a shallow breath, and looked around him. He was in a small, spartan room, with two beds along the decrepit walls, a sink and a toilet for minimal facilities in the corner facing the door. A gust of wind blowing on his face made him take a closer look at the only window. The upper, left panel was broken, and it was otherwise obstructed by thick bars.

Clenching his teeth, Bruce swayed his legs out of the bed and slowly stood up. Leaning a hand on the wall, he carefully stepped toward the window to take a peer outside. As far as the eye could see, there was only a deep, dense forest on the horizon. Grasping that they were on the third or fourth story of a building, Bruce looked down to estimate their height and saw a deserted, snow covered yard thirty feet down.

"Crap..." he muttered. The yard was surrounded by a wall and a watchtower was facing them, a hundred yards away.

"We're on Amber Island," Knox said. "Fifty miles north of Gotham."

"And one mile between us and the coast," Bruce added, wincing as he sat back on the edge of the mattress before wrapping the blankets tighter around him.

He remembered that in the beginning of the century, the island had served the same purpose as Arkham, until a hurricane moving up the East Coast had stricken it during World War Two. The bad weather had kept the rescue from reaching the island for nearly two months, and when they had finally arrived, the electricity had failed for so long that it was too late for all the inhabitants of the island. They suspected the personnel had freed some of the convicts by compassion, only to be murdered; the escaped prisoners had not shown the same humanity to their captors, and left their fellows behind. A majority of inmates had been found starved to death in their cells, some in a terrible, inexpressible state. In front of the horror it had spread in the public opinion, the city had freed the necessary funds to build Arkham in the Narrows.

The echo of a lock sounded in the distance, jerking Bruce back to the present. Tense, he limped toward the door, and flattened against the wall.

"I wouldn't stay here, if I were you," Knox warned.

Bruce ignored the advice against and prepared himself to jump on the killer as soon as he would step in. He would not have a second chance for a surprise strike.

But when the door opened, an excruciating pain exploded in his whole body.

Bruce crumbled on the ground, panting, unable to move while Freeze entered and put down a tray on the appointment table next to him. He was so close, at hands reach, but he could not even budge a toe and that irritated him further.

"Do something!" he tried to cry to Knox, but it was an inaudible mess of sounds that came out of his mouth. Angry, he looked through a veil of tears at Knox sitting on his bed, not daring to move while Freeze walked out of the room unimpeded.

After a long moment, Bruce managed to regain enough strength in his arms to drag himself toward the bed. Still panting, he hauled himself on his feet when Knox finally moved to help him. Furious, he rejected his hand with force, lost his balance and crumbled miserably back on the ground. Knox let out a sigh of exasperation and left him alone, saying that Freeze will probably not come back for a couple of hours, and that the ground should be safe for a while.

Bruce sat up against the frame of the bed and stretched his legs in front of him. For the next dozen of minutes, he focused on easing his heart, and massaged his thighs to force blood to run through them and get them working again. It was then that he realized that the ground was a sheet of metal, and there were wooden poles under the beds.

"Dammit..." Bruce muttered, forcing himself to climb on the bed. The ground was wired in order to keep the prisoner away when nurses and doctors came in.

"You don't need to hurry to eat," Knox said, nodding toward the table, "It's cold anyway. There's water on the tap. I let it run for a couple of minutes each time before drinking. Tastes of rust and will probably ruin your intestines, but it's all we got. Cold or this bastard will probably kill us before dysentery anyway."

Bruce watched the  _Sun_ 's journalist move back toward his bed with his supper, climb on it, and wrap himself in a couple of blankets before eating what looked like meatballs.

"Which day is it?" Bruce asked, trying to wrap himself in the blankets, but his fingers were still difficult to bend and the blankets, of military supply and probably as old as the place, kept escaping his grasp.

"I'd say January seventh. You stayed unconscious for a whole day after he brought us here. I even thought you were dead. Dammit Wayne!"

Knox jumped down his bed and helped him secure himself in the rough covers. Bruce did not protest this time, surprised by the man's solicitude. He had not expected that from the man who had tried to ruin his life.

"Why d'ya bother helping me?"

"You live your life, I do my job. That's all," Knox replied, returning to his own bed, "Well, you lived and I did is the correct tense. Nothing personal."

Bruce nodded and exhaled slowly. Could Knox be smarter than he looked after all? He would not be the only one in this city to pretend being dumb. Bruce sighed and forced himself to focus on their predicament. If he had disappeared for two days, he trusted Gordon had put the whole city on alert, but Amber Island was not probably the first place they would check. Bruce retrieved his cellphone. His Blackberry was out of battery, but the other he kept untraceable still had a charge.

"Useless," Knox muttered, "Never been a network here. Freeze knows it, or he would have taken your phone."

_I don't need a network_ , Bruce thought, switching on his night phone, and moving closer to the window to get a connection.

"Satellite?" Knox asked.

"Yep."

"I thought they needed bigger antennas?"

"Depends on how high the satellite is," Bruce replied, composing a brief message.

The connection was weak and unstable, but after a moment, he felt confident that his SOS had been emitted, so he put the phone back in his pocket, and lay back under the blankets.

"So what now?" Knox asked.

"So now we wait," Bruce said, lying back under the blankets. Exhausted, he closed his eyes, aware that when Gordon arrived, he needed to be rested.

 


	28. Chapter 28

Fifty miles north of Gotham, on a coastline road that followed a ragged, rocky relief, Hutchtown was one of those small cities that suddenly appeared after a turn in a curve, a well kept secret nestled on a sandy cove between tree-covered cliffs.

But the place was far from idyllic today.

Rogue waves splashed on the van's windshield, forcing Bullock to let the wipers on as if it rained. Their regular squeaking felt like red, flashing numbers on a countdown for Gordon, who stared anxiously at the first houses and low buildings with red, faded brick walls. The street lamps cast a diffuse, orange gleam in the deep blue sky, indicating that there was still electricity in the apparently lifeless village.

The knot in his guts tightened a notch and Gordon took a deep breath to ease his rushing pulse.

He had never hated feeling fear before an operation. Fear gave him the needed alertness and sharpness to stay alive. But this time, it was different. It was overwhelming. Paralyzing.

Four hours ago, Alfred Pennyworth - who was sitting in the rear compartment with Montoya - had called him with surprising news and two delicate requests. Wayne had sent an SOS from his cellphone. The one he kept untraceable, and must stay so. How the young billionaire could possibly beat the system, Gordon did not want to know, but indeed, even less did he want the Feds digging into the subject. He would play the emergency of the situation in the ambient chaos when the Feds came knocking on his door, asking uncomfortable questions about Wayne's phone, in a couple of days. Breaking another rule and allowing a civilian to join their operation did not bother him too much at this stage. Especially when that said civilian was the only one able to communicate with the prisoners.

However, that cell phone was just what bothered him the most. Why had Freeze let Wayne keep it?Even if there was no network on the island, that did not seem like a mistake a serial killer would commit, for they could find out the device's last position and extrapolate his possible location.

Gordon shook his head and took another deep breath as fear rose again like a wave. His instinct told him Freeze somehow wanted them to know where he was. But certainly he did not expect them to come so soon.

So soon?

Wayne was at least thirty-two hours in a serial killer's claws; Knox, almost fifty.

To snatch a piece of juicy meat from a hyena's mouth.

The words of an FBI profiler describing his attempt to rescue a young man from a serial killer's claws in the Mid-West a dozen years ago still scared Gordon out of his skin.

Stop this! Gordon berated himself, closing his eyes as he refused to see again the horrifying images of the victim, skinned like a common poultry and half eaten... Bile burnt his throat. At least, the crazy psychiatrist was now in a high security cell in Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane until the end of his life.

May it come quickly, Gordon surprised himself by praying. That case belonged to those that shook the foundations of his convictions about death penalty, made the lines blurry and left him in deep disarray. A part of him still did not understand why Wayne had saved the Joker, and never would.

There was a morbid grandiloquence in the killer clown, a pervert whose vanity was equaled only by his ego. Freeze was of another kind. A more silent, a more elusive one, a monster lurking in the darkest corner of a sick mind. They still did not know his face, and he had not addressed himself to the media though Knox's kidnapping could be considered as an attack against them, but Gordon did not think so. Both Knox and Vale had written articles on Wayne and his alter ego. His threat against the Batman and Wayne's kidnapping a couple of days later inspired him nothing good at all. It made him fear that Freeze had discovered the Dark Knight's identity.

Thirty-two hours.

Fear, ire, a deep disgust and horror washed over Gordon again.

As the van stopped with a slight jolt, he convinced himself that they were not too late.

An icy wind lashed his face as he opened the door and stepped out in the deserted parking lot in front of the town's only pier. Jaw clenched, he quickly scanned the place before the night could swallow the wild landscape while the SWAT truck stopped next to them. For now, their arrival did not seem to stir up the little town.

"There's a pub at the corner of the street that seems opened," Montoya said loudly to be heard above the sound of the helicopter rotor.

Gordon squinted and raised an arm to protect his face as the thin layer of snow that covered the crackled asphalt underfoot started to lift.

"Go and see if someone saw something interesting," he replied, casting a glance at the wooden house. There was no car parked in front or in the small lot aside, but there was indeed some light in the main room.

Bending in two, Gordon quickly moved toward the helicopter. The pilot did not shut off the engine and the blades ticked over.

"Still enough gas?" he cried to the pilot.

"Plenty, sir."

"Good," Gordon replied, feeling relieved, at least on this point.

"Commissioner? We're ready to go when you are."

Gordon craned his neck toward the SWAT unit commanding officer and nodded his approval. Time was of the essence now.

"First team move out!" the officer cried in his walkie-talkie.

Straight away, four men wearing black, heavy gear for night operation under rough conditions rushed out of the truck and strode across the parking lot toward the helicopter.

The rotor started to turn faster and faster as the men climbed in. Gordon backed off to a safer position, shuddering. On so short notice, he had not been able to put his hand on a troop carrier, and had requisitioned only a light utility MD500E assigned to traffic surveillance. It could only fit five persons in its belly including the pilot, who would have to make three back-and-forth trips to transfer the whole SWAT team to the island. Twelve men, including himself and Montoya. That was all the force he had managed to gather.

Gordon waited for the chopper to disappear above the sea before heading back toward the van. Things were going to go rather quickly now. At top speed, the MD500E would barely need thirty seconds to cover the mile to Amber; in less than ten minutes, he would be there too and he wanted to assure himself with Bullock that the transmissions worked and that Alfred Pennyworth was fine before he left. Gordon opened the rear door and frowned.

"Where's Pennyworth?" he asked Bullock, who was sitting at the station to adjust the video and audio feed from the SWAT officers' helmet cameras.

The lieutenant shrugged. "He said he needed some fresh air to wake up."

Gordon stepped back into the open to look around and saw Montoya striding across the street. He headed toward her. "So, lieutenant?"

"The owner was there, and a couple of clients; they saw nothing out of the ordinary. They just confirmed there was no way to phone the island. And no ferry either."

Gordon sighed, disappointed to learn nothing new. The sound of the helicopter rotor above the growling sea attracted his gaze on the sky. He frowned upon seeing a dark, imposing silhouette moving out of the slight fog of drifting snow swallowing the pier.

"Mr. Pennyworth, please, it's so icy there," said Montoya just as Gordon realized that his eyes had played a very weird trick on him. "Come sit inside the van. You too, Commissioner."

If he was not so tense, Gordon would have smiled at his officer's mother hen attitude, who was now giving Pennyworth her arm, telling him to watch his step. Sure, that Pennyworth breaking a hip was the last thing they needed right now; it was also the least probable.

"Will you accompany me for a tea, Commissioner?"

Gordon's eyes widened out of surprise at Alfred's request.

"A tea?"

"Oh, we can negotiate for an Irish coffee. The weather certainly asks for it."

Gordon caught a sense of urgency in the old man's tone and nodded gravely. "Prepare to go with the second team, Lieutenant."

A couple of minutes later, he joined Pennyworth around a table wedged on the left corner of the room, just in front of the bay window in time to see the helicopter taking off.

"A scientist came back the day before yesterday to replace some equipment on the island," Pennyworth said, keeping his voice's volume only audible to him.

Gordon stared at him, incredulous.

"Oh, there was a fisherman checking his boat's anchor on the pier. The storm is strengthening," Alfred replied.

"And would you have by any chance have the scientist's description?"

Alfred's smirk sharpened.

"I have better than that: Dr. Victor Fries. The fisherman recalled him clearly because he came two years ago with his company, Eolia, to investigate the possibility of building on the island a hybrid, tide and eolian energy power plant. Many people here saw the project as a last call to save the city's economy. However, it was put on ice when a legal quarrel about who owned the place arose."

"Eolia, you said? Rings a bell... I saw a memo about its founder committing suicide a couple of months ago."

"Joseph Wright."

"Yeah, that was the name," Gordon said, straightening noticeably on the burgundy, imitation leather seat. "Would I dare ask how do you know it?"

Alfred tilted his head slightly, and took a sip of his coffee.

"You've got to be kidding me..." Gordon muttered after a few seconds of silence, "Amber Island belongs to Bruce Wayne?"

Was there still a place that did not belong to him in a hundred miles radius around Gotham?

"Well, in fact, Eolia belongs to Wayne Enterprise."

After a deep sigh, Gordon said: "At least now we have the motive behind the kidnapping."

"The fisherman said he thinks Fries is alone but couldn't be certain, he was too far away when he saw him in his Zodiac boat. However, my guess is he was. Vengeance is a personal matter."

Gordon bit his lips. Somehow he was relieved to have a real name, but that Fries had a personal score to settle with Wayne did not make him less dangerous. He was about to call Bullock to have him dig up everything he could on the scientist when the door bell rang and a gust of fresh air rushed in with Montoya.

"I'm ready to go, Commissioner," she said, slightly averting her eyes to look at the ground, clearly embarrassed.

"Where's Bullock?" Gordon frowned, slowly standing up. His instinct smelled a mean trick somewhere.

"He left with the second team, Commissioner."

"What? I thought I told- no ordered you to go with the second team, lieutenant?" he fumed.

"I know, Sir, but we need someone to coordinate the operation in the van now."

A hand patted his shoulder. Alfred whispered the word "liability" before moving toward the doors with his coffee in hand.

The blunt remark blew all breath out of Gordon's lungs. He wanted to say that they would settle this later but the grotesqueness of the situation kept him from muttering anything but a growl. The pilot's voice crackled in Montoya's radio, asking her to report for take off.

"Don't worry, we'll bring him back safe and sound in no time," she said to Alfred before walking out.

"Oh, but do take all the time you need, lieutenant, don't rush in too fast..."

Gordon patted him on the shoulder. "Let's go."

"Liability..." he muttered as he closed the van's door behind him a short instant later, still not believing his ears. "How can you stay behind so quietly?" he added, sitting down next to Alfred on a folding chair in front of the surveillance station. The twenty-four inch screen was divided into three rows and four columns, each square showing in greenish tones what one of the SWAT officers and his lieutenants saw.

"Discipline," Alfred replied as the last team jumped out of the chopper on the island's north, to go and cut the electricity generator.

"Don't say anything, but that has never been exactly my cup of tea," Gordon said as he gave Alfred a pair of headphones and put the other on his head.

"Thanks you for all of this."

In the dim light, Gordon saw a flash of mischievousness sparkling in Alfred's clear blue eyes before they became as sharp as an ice peak.

Thank God the man was on their side.

* * *

Night had swallowed the cell when Bruce suddenly opened his eyes, fully awake.

"Hey, Knox?" he whispered as he swung his legs over the mattress and listened to his surroundings.

"Wh-what?"

"The humming stopped."

Bruce felt his heart rate spiking out of thrill. The generator had just died out. Despite the cold, he extirpated himself from his covers and, careful not to put too much weight on his injured knee, he groped in the dark toward the door.

"I hadn't noticed a humming. It's so damn cold..."

The door knob refused to turn. Not really surprised, Bruce muttered a curse, and limped back toward the bed. His knee was worse than a couple of hours ago. It now felt like encased in a block of concrete, and despite the cold, he was thinking about tearing his pants' leg to relieve the throbbing pressure.

His cellphone emitted a short buzz.

Bruce straightened.

Gordon's there, he told himself, somehow not feeling as relieved as he should be.

There were too many things he did not like about his situation. He did not like at all that Freeze had left him his phone, that he had put them together in a cell with a window. He feared Gordon and his men were about to fall into a trap not set for them, but for the Batman. Vale said Freeze wanted the Bat in his exhibition. That must be part of his plan. Knox and him were still alive because their thermal signature would give their position away, like a flashy neon arrow yelling "Hey! The prisoners're there! Try and get'em!"

"Hey! Knox! Wake up!" he said, shaking the man's shoulder.

"No... Let me sleep... not cold when sleepin'..."

Bruce sighed. Trap or not, the rescue was coming and he expected things to turn sour. He needed to keep Knox awake and alert.

"Where did you meet Vicky Vale?" he asked, standing up again, certain that he had heard the wind carry the sound of a rotor.

"None of your business."

At the window, Bruce stayed silent for a couple of seconds, listening carefully. Here it was again. "She came to your defense that morning at the General Hospital, just after the ceremony. She was afraid I would use my relations to screw you."

"You keep away from her or I'll screw you."

"I don't think you can do much more damage than you've already done," Bruce said, bitter.

"Wanna bet?" Knox said.

Bruce smirked, satisfied to have gotten all his attention.

"Knox, what would happen if you yelled for help?"

"Last time I tried, I received a Taser discharge."

"Yell with all your strength that I'm dead."

"Are you crazy or what?"

"Just yell. Trust me."

"I swear that if he tases me, I'll tase you."

"Deal," Bruce replied, walking back toward the door.

While Knox began to shout, Bruce climbed on the sink with a wince, preparing himself for the coming ordeal. There were not many places to hide in the cell, and he still mistrusted the ground. Freeze could have a secondary power generator for their cell.

"Go on," he encouraged Knox whose cries weakened.

Then, he took a deep breath and, relieved that the dark was going to conceal his little trick, stretched his hands toward the facing wall. Tears running from his eyes, he climbed until his back brushed the ceiling. Beneath him, Knox's first, shy cries, suddenly turned wilder, as if he had suddenly let his ire, his rage and fear speak, unchaining a visceral panic.

Beads of sweat pearled on Bruce's forehead. Ducard trained them to maintain this position for an hour or risk being punished by a most painful session of cane in the pit; he doubted he would hold further than a couple of minutes tonight. Knox was now crying between two screams, and Bruce was again grateful for the darkness, uncertain that the journalist was not having a nervous breakdown.

He felt that he would not be able to hold anymore when the door creaked opened.

A flashlight beam dispelled the darkness. A man came in, holding a taser gun.

_Freeze!_

Bruce leaped from his position with the muscular weight and stunning ferocity of a wounded cougar on his prey. The impact sent the killer crashing on the ground. Reacting fast, Bruce seized Freeze by his throat and punched him square in the face. He felt a tooth or two snapping under his knuckles. Aware that his blow lacked the force to knock his opponent out, Bruce was about to deal him a second one when a kick in his injured knee sent a paralyzing wave of pain through his leg. Tears burning in his eyes, he rolled away to avoid being seized, but his back hit the foot of the sink. The flashlight beam suddenly blinded him. Squinting, he then saw like a negative imprint on his eyelids Freeze extending an arm toward him. Feeling the roughness of a rusted pipe under his fingers, Bruce snatched it from the wall and sliced the air in front of him with it. Water spurted all around as he hit Freeze.

"Wayne! Stand back!" Knox cried.

"No!" he shouted as Freeze's weight fell on his leg.

Bruce suddenly felt a veil of pain swallow him as fifty-thousand volts overloaded his body.

"Bastard..." he whispered, panting as he realized, confused, that Knox was dragging him in a dark corridor.

The flashlight beam blinded him again as the latter said:

"Hey! I saved you. You could say thanks."

Bruce growled, outraged. How many seconds had he pressed on the Taser's trigger? Well above the five recommended. Hating being dragged, he rolled on his belly and tried to stand up. But spasms still jolted him, and he collapsed face down.

"Let me here and go find help," he said to Knox. Even if he had to crawl on the ground all the way back, he wanted to check on Freeze and lock him in the cell until Gordon's men arrived. They should not be far away now.

"No way. Writing obituaries is Vale's job, not mine."

Bruce cursed as Knox resumed dragging him. Clenching his jaw, he then managed to straighten a little, and with the journalist's help, stood up, and staggered down the corridor. They had not covered ten feet when he heard a weak cry on his left. "Wait!" he said to Knox. "Hey! Is there someone here?"

"Yes! Please, help us!"

Bruce's eyes grew wide. They were not the only prisoners.

"The keys," he said, grasping Knox's sleeve. "Freeze must have the keys."

"Are you kidding me?" Knox exclaimed.

"Knox!"

"Okay! You wait for me here," the journalist said, removing his supporting arm without warning.

Bruce collapsed on the ground again and growled, furious with the treatment. But his rage was short. Worried for Knox, he watched his dark silhouette walking back toward their cell, telling himself that if his own legs still could not support his weight, Freeze was probably not in a state to threaten the journalist.

"Please! Help us!" The weak voice sounded again on his left.

Bruce dragged himself toward the cell and managed to sit up, leaning his back against the wall. "Don't worry," he said. "We're going to get you out of here. Are you injured?"

A sob sounded. A sob caused by pain, or maybe simply exhaustion, or maybe even the hope of rescue. "Please, whoever you are, hurry..."

Bruce felt shudders running down his spine.

"I got'em," Knox exclaimed, giving him the flashlight while adding: "And I locked that bastard in our cell. Which one is this?"

"Good job, Knox. You should apply for the GCPD," Bruce replied, directing the beam on the door. "Thirty-two," he said, lightening the bundle of a dozen keys in the journalist's hands.

"And work nights and weekends and ruin my marriage?" Knox said, unlocking and pushing the door. "No way! I'm perfectly happy as I am."

Bruce chuckled. Was this some kind of humor? He wondered as a disheveled man holding a frail form wrapped in a blanket in his arms stepped out. A woman. Bruce felt all the horror of their situation crashing back on his shoulders. "Are you all right?" he asked, worried.

"We'll be... " the man replied.

While Knox checked the other cells in the corridor, he leaned a hand on the wall and forced himself to stand up but gave up when his knee buckled under his weight. At least the Taser's incapacitating effect was wearing off more every second.

"What happened to you? I'm a physician, I can help," the man said as Knox came back to help him to his feet.

"A bad day," Bruce muttered as he limped toward the two other men Knox had freed.

"Are you all all right?" a man asked. "Mr. Wayne, is that you?"

Bruce frowned, certain he knew the last voice.

"It's him, and he's been tased," Knox said, answering for Bruce who tried to decipher the newcomer's face in the shadows while an angry voice with a point of Italian accent echoed.

"Where's that bastard? I'm gonna kill him!"

"Calm down, Vito," the other replied.

Vito? Vito Mancini? Bruce wondered, aghast. Damn! The other was John Adams, the new DA. He had always suspected a link between Vito and Luciano's lawyer. Public figures, save for the physician and his wife, they were all public figures. Bruce's instinct told him Freeze had not lied to Vale. Maybe his plan was to let them die like the former prisoners of Amber Island, slowly starved to death, before inviting the media to his own exhibition.

"Normally, I'd tell you not to make any effort, but I don't think you have much of a choice," the physician said next to Bruce.

Bruce exhaled slowly, shaking his head. Though he wanted to understand how the doctor fit in the picture, this was no place for some small talk. "Let's go," he said, moving forward.

Knox followed his movement, and soon, all the others did too. Taking the flashlight, the DA moved in front of them, opening their way. Bruce let him take the lead, preferring to stay behind with Knox in order to detect a hitch, while Vito Mancini helped the physician carry his wife in the middle.

They soon reached a grid that cut the corridor from a large stairwell. After quickly searching through the bundle of keys, Knox opened the gate when one, then three and four flashlights beams appeared from the bottom of the stair.

"We're here!" the DA cried out, rushing through and down the stairs, "We're here!"

Relieved, Bruce closed the door behind him, limped toward the first step and sat down with relief.

"We got them, Commissioner! They all appear fine."

_"All? How many are they, lieutenant?"_

Bruce frowned upon hearing Gordon's voice coming out of Montoya's walkie-talkie.

"Five, sir. No, six," the lieutenant said, before turning worried eyes toward him. "Are you all right, Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce nodded. "You'll find the killer in the seventh cell on your right, Lieutenant. He got tased but be wary of him. I'm not out anymore, so he might be dangerous again."

"You mean you got tased too?"

_"Who got tased?"_

Montoya craned her neck toward her left shoulder where her walkie-talkie was strapped. "Mr. Wayne, sir. You'd better call for at least two ambulances; there's also a woman who needs medical attention ASAP. They've all probably got hypothermia, too."

"Put the woman and Wayne in the first chopper, lieutenant. And secure the cell where Freeze is until all the civilians are safely on the mainland."

"You're in charge, lieutenant?" Bruce asked, feeling a bit slow.

"Is that a problem, Mr. Wayne?"

"No, not at all," he said with a wince as he stretched his right hand on the wooden banister to stand up. But again, his knee buckled as soon as he put his foot on the ground. Now, he had a serious problem.

"Easy," Montoya said, taking his arm above her shoulders to offer him an extra support. "Jones, Stevens, Williams! Help Mr. Wayne and the others get to the chopper. The others with me!"

A young officer immediately stepped by him and relieved the lieutenant, offering a stronger support. "Come on, sir, let's go. The chopper's small but fast. You'll be on the mainland in no time with pretty, caring nurses just for you."

"When was the last time you went to a hospital, officer?" Bruce asked between two winces of pain. They climbed down a bit too quickly.

"My name's Jones, sir. Ten years ago, to have my appendix removed. But I was eleven and didn't know how to make the most of it, if you follow me."

Bruce could not help but chuckle at the kid's mischief.

"One more effort, sir," Jones said as they walked through a large, empty hall, and out into the courtyard. The helicopter was landing, lighting the zone with its spotlights. Bruce bent forward to continue walking. In front of him, the officer who carried the woman in his arms put her down in the cabin and helped her husband join her. Jones led him around the cockpit and opened the copilot's door for him. While Bruce managed to put his leg straight despite the tool yoke at his feet, Jones settled the helmet on his head and buckled his harness.

"Fasten your seat-belts, everyone. The ride's a bit rough tonight but I'll make it short for you," the pilot announced with an energy that conveyed a genuine pleasure to fly under such weather.

As the helicopter rose above the building's roof, Bruce cast him a tired look. He suddenly felt very, very old. But at least, the pilot was right. The helicopter had barely stabilized before the ride was over. As the skids touched ground with slight a jolt, Bruce removed his helmet quickly, aware that the pilot would need to take off fast to return to the island and get the others out.

"Thanks for the ride," he said as he opened the door, and carefully climbed down into a parking lot. A firetruck and SWAT vehicle were parked nearby, and the parking lot was lit up like daylight.

Bruce raised his eyes, catching some movement in front of him. Firemen were coming toward him, two holding a gurney. But behind them, there was a dark, shadowy silhouette standing immobile, light making his whitish hair shimmer. Bruce straightened, and clenching his jaw, limped toward Alfred.

"Are you all right, sir?" a fireman asked him, wrapping a survival blanket around his shoulders.

"The couple behind me need your attention first," he said, keeping on moving forward despite the pain. "Still haven't given up on me?" he then asked with a weak smile as he stopped in front of Alfred.

"Never!" the old man replied with his usual smirk, but his voice shook from emotion.

Feeling his old friend's distress sharply, Bruce bit his lips, nodded, and then did something he had not done in a very long time. He hugged Alfred.

"How do you feel, master Bruce?" the latter said after a moment, moving a step backward though keeping his hands on Bruce's shoulders.

"Cold. Hungry. Eager to leave this place."

"I called Stevenson just before you landed. He will be here in an hour. Let's get you something to drink and eat before he arrives," Alfred said, helping him to walk toward the pub across the street.

Relieved to hear that the taxi-chopper he occasionally used would shortly take him away, Bruce took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. It was finished. Truly finished. The mob was defeated; Freeze was under control and soon be in custody. Even if the idea of finding himself immobilized in his bed in order to allow his knee to heal did not appeal him very much, he needed to rest. Do nothing. Take a vacation. Bruce smirked. He who had never contemplating lying down on a deck-chair, suddenly entertained the dream to laze under a warm sun.

"What do you think about renting a yacht in the Caribbeans for a couple of weeks, Alfred?" he said as he limped toward the pub.

"I happen to know a clinic in Kingston where you'll get the best services and with all possible discretion, sir, and I think Miss Vale will be delighted."

Bruce nodded. "Call that a deal then."


	29. Chapter 29

_**One year later.** _

_"Net oshibka na etot raz."_

_"Da, ser."_

Bruce arched an eyebrow. "Yes, sir." Those was probably the only words he understood now in Russian. Though he still trusted he could speak Mandarin, his language skills had truly become sluggish. But that did not matter. The voice recognition and translation software was there for a purpose. A door closed and a fist hit a table with force.

_"Sukin syn!"_

Bruce smirked. Ire did not need any translation.

Boris Valienkovitch did not appreciate his intervention on the docks last evening, ruining a weapons delivery to the Red Cobras. Each one had his priorities. And his were still Gotham's citizens' safety. He had not freed the city from the Italian mafia to watch the Russians fill the void and organize the street gangs. Drugs, prostitution, and violent crimes would plague the city again if that happened.

Exhaling a deep sigh, Bruce read again the whole conversation and frowned.

The Russian boss had referred to "The Penguin" being disappointed. Not a good perspective obviously considering the long silence that followed. Who could this Penguin be? He wondered, getting the sudden, disturbing feeling that the powerful Valienkovitch was actually a common middleman.

"Master Bruce? The guests have been there for nearly forty-five minutes now," Alfred's voice echoed behind him.

Bruce raised his eyes on the left, upper screen where he was running Dr. Edward Nashton's last simulation for the fourth time, with a few adjustments in the parameters. For now, it seemed to be working, and this was a stunning surprise.

"I'm coming in a few minutes."

"Did you manage to convince Jorg Svenson to merge your projects?"

"Nope. I think he believes I'm gonna steal his invention and take all the credit for myself," he replied, not quite able to keep bitterness out of his tone.

If he wanted to put his hand on the Y-Cat generator patent, he could easily buy TelXCorp, the venture capital fund behind Svenson's startup, and place his pawns in the physicist's other source of financing. But with what had happened with Eolia, he did not want to take such a risk again. Joseph Wright had not endured the laws of industrial competition, nor did Victor Fries, his principal associate. And after what had happened to the latter, Bruce still had difficulties to come to terms that he could have caused such a catastrophic chain reaction. That Fries had already slipped into madness before Eolia's buyout by Wayne Enterprises, and before the mob helicopter crashed on his house, as Alfred stated, did not mater much at this point. Certainly, he was not responsible for Fries' wife's sickness, but he had wrecked havoc in Fries' life and torn apart his last hope to save her, no matter how illusory a hope it was.

The Batman had severed Fries' last link to sanity.

_Madness is like gravity: all it needs is a little push!_

Bruce felt his jaw clenching tight as the Joker's insane laugh echoed in his mind.

This was a sad affair, a very sad affair, inspiring in him nothing more than a bitter compassion tainted red by guilt. At least they had stopped Fries before he made more victims, and he would not make anymore now. While the helicopter evacuated the prisoners to the mainland, the SWAT had used their Taser guns on the serial killer a couple of times in order to keep him under control, causing him to go into cardiac arrest during transport. Victor Fries had lain in a vegetative state in a New Haven hospital since then.

So no. Svenson was safe. Lucius understood, or at least respected, his decision; the board of directors did not, of course: the new branch of Wayne Enterprises, Renewable Energies Research and Development, would be nothing more than an obnoxious money pit if Svenson managed to make his prototype move from experimental to industrial stage before their own.

"You'll be famous if you manage to make this fusion reactor work."

"I don't care about fame, Alfred."

"Then you will just be outrageously richer."

The screen suddenly went dark and a long list of logs scrolled down fast.

"Not for today nor tomorrow..." Bruce said, letting out a deep sigh of frustration as he slumped into his chair.

"I think it is a sign to let your science project simmer for the night."

"Hmm," Bruce muttered, thinking about which parameters he could change. Or maybe it was the whole matrix setup that needed reconfiguring, like Edward Nashton, the Virtual Testing Environment project leader, insisted. At least the diagnostic program launched automatically now. This was small progress, but still it was progress. Quickly, Bruce opened an email to Nashton and copy/pasted the diagnostic results.

Bruce was about to hit send when he realized that the scientist was not going to take the mail very well and would be in an aggressive, defensive mood, impossible to work with for days.

Lucius said to keep him at all costs, that the project of the fusion reactor would go nowhere without his vision, but at the same time, all of Nashton's direct managers wanted to get rid of him, saying the scientist's arrogance and lack of social skills made him unmanageable. Bruce had finally reorganized the management chart and placed Virtual Testing Environment under his direct lead. That Nashton was naturally incapable of hypocrisy, and called a spade a spade was certainly not a lack of quality per se and Bruce would not hold it against Nashton. However, Bruce had discovered that this outspokenness went hand in hand with an unusual susceptibility.

Quickly, Bruce added a few encouraging words at the end of the mail before sending it.

"Miss Vicky has arrived, sir."

"What?"

Surprised, Bruce raised a glance at the screen showing the manor's hall and saw her giving her long coat to the valet service. All his worries vanished at the sight of her. Smiling, Bruce stood up and headed toward the door. Midway, Alfred coughed to get his attention. Bruce craned his neck to ask what was wrong when he saw his cane flying in the air.

"Oh, thank you," Bruce said, catching it before resuming his path.

"May I say that I preferred your playboy personality better?" Alfred said shortly after as he closed the elevator's gate behind them.

A slight jolt shook them and the platform began its fast ascension toward the study.

"This moping-about recluse you seem attached to is well, how shall I put it, as depressing as a Spring day in the Highlands."

"Take out your umbrella, Alfred. I'm not reversing to that smiling jerk. Not me anymore," Bruce replied, checking through the spy hole that the study was clear before pushing on the library's back shelf to slide it open. "I like the cane too much," he added with a smirk, immediately beginning to limp.

"That you were not a playboy, I never doubted, sir. But you're no monk either. Too much hair for that. So I guess it all falls back to the same question, master Bruce: who are you?"

"Someone not in a mood to philosophize about existence, Alfred. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not the next day either."

"At least, could you be in a mood to dress?"

Bruce arched an eyebrow. He was still in his bathrobe.

"Er... I might do that."

"Relieved to hear it, sir. I'm going back downstairs to warn your guests that their host will be joining them shortly."

Bruce nodded absently and headed toward his bedroom, not quite able to get rid of his old friend's question, playing like an annoying music in the background. Holding a grudge against Alfred, Bruce threw his cane on his bed, unhooked his tuxedo from the wooden manservant and walked in the bathroom. Perhaps the evening was not that bad a fate tonight. A welcomed distraction that would help him not to think.

But as he began to shave, Bruce caught his reflection on the mirror and sighed deeply.

His eyes were wild.

Sure, he lacked sleep because of last night's operation, but he feared there was something else, something more insidious.

The feeling of being at the end of his rope. Again. Like after his return from Jamaica.

The palm trees and clear blue, peaceful waters had faded fast once back in Gotham. Vicky had accepted a temporary replacement position for the international division of the  _Globe and Mail_  in London. Finding himself alone in the manor while still being unable to walk without a cane had been more depressing than he would have expected. It had left him void of emotions, as dry as dead wood.

Capitalizing on his kidnapping by Freeze, he had then used the scared, traumatized billionaire shutting himself closed in his high security manor as a new cover. Exit the insufferable playboy always smiling dumbly between pretty girls. That had seemed like a breath of fresh air at the beginning; now, he was not sure that he was playing anymore. Despite the fusion reactor project, he could feel neurasthenia swallowing his mind like a black hole.

At least, until Valienkovitch's arrival.

Sadness tightened Bruce's heart as Rachel's words, next to the well, sounded in his mind. Batman was no mask. A ghost chasing the other, Ducard's clapping hands echoed in his mind.

Bruce put down his razor and leaned on the sink.

"Impressive. Very impressive," his mentor said with pride.

"How come? I lost."

"Correction: you did not win."

"Does it make a difference?"

"Normally, I'd say no, but today, it certainly makes one. To seize the old temple was not the real object of the exercise. Loyalty was."

Bruce frowned. He still did not accept his defeat. "You ordered one of my men to betray me?"

"Why only one?" Ducard smirked. "You are a natural leader, Bruce, a stunning strategist, an instinctive fighter. What the others worked for months, even years to acquire in blood, took you mere weeks and sweat to master. That escaped no one. Save you. Reject your fear of not being up to it to accomplish your destiny at Ras Al Ghul's side."

"I don't see how I could lead them if they can betray me."

"They did not."

"How come I failed then?"

"Your aura does not stretch to the village. Not yet."

Bruce took a deep breath and swayed the memory away. He was a warrior, but could not accept the price of defeat. And if he could not live with it, he could not fight.

Do not fight; do not vanquish; remove the notion of enemy.

Maybe if he had followed Morihei Ueshiba's teaching instead of Ducard's. He would not be such a mess now.

Jaw tight, Bruce adjusted the bowtie around his neck.

Justice and vengeance were still two words lost in the cold shadows of his soul. Global harmony versus personal satisfaction. There would always be not enough Ueshiba in him, and too much of Ducard. And that made him an enemy for Gotham.

_Remove the enemy._

Perhaps it was time to follow Ueshiba to the letter and retreat from the battlefield, offer Vicky what he could not give to Rachel.

Determined, he then seized his cane, and limped out of his bedroom.

Ambiance music played by a classical orchestra rose from the first floor but Bruce barely registered it. Dancing did not concern him anymore. He slowly made his way down the corridor, catching his reflection on the high windows giving on dark sky, and stopped shortly after on the stairwell's central landing. Feeling a certain impatience, he cast a circular glance at the reception hall, searching for Vicky and Gordon in the blur of black dresses and tuxedos sometimes lightened up by touches of shimmering green, blue or purple. But the feasting crowd was too dense. Before someone would notice his presence, Bruce climbed down and dived in.

Make yourself invisible, he told himself, as he made his way through the guests, until he caught sight of her long, blond hair tied in a chignon with thin braids.

A shudder ran down his spine as he observed her, resisting with difficulty an urge to slide his free hand around her waist and his head in the hollow of her neck. Feeling his presence, Vicky pivoted on her heels.

"Bruce?" she said with a shy smile.

There was a moment of silence.

"How's the knee?" she then asked, her eyes expressing a certain worry after falling on his cane.

"Oh, quite fine, though it still needs cream once in a while. I mean when the weather gets wet- Hmm, never mind."

Bruce chuckled at his gaucherie and slightly looked away to hide his embarrassment, feeling blood coloring his cheeks. The mafia was completely wrong. One did not need sophisticated weapons to bring him down. "Inside, I'm more..." How stupid he had felt in the restaurant lobby upon hearing those words coming out of his mouth. He might not be playing jerk anymore, yet he felt like one.

"How was-" he began when Alfred's voice sounded behind him.

"Miss Vicky, I am delighted to see you again. How was your flight?"

Bruce craned his neck and stepped aside as Vicky moved forward to meet his old friend.

"Long but fine, thank you. I'm so glad to see you too, Alfred."

Unbalanced by the intervention, Bruce watched them exchanging an affectionate hug with a slight point of jealousy. Alfred stepped back toward him, and squeezing his shoulder, whispered in his ear: "You'll have a hard time keeping her to yourself tonight."

Bruce straightened, craning his neck to send a perplexed glance at Alfred who was walking away. Was this a challenge? he wondered just as an all too familiar voice squeaked behind him.

"Vicky?!"

Bruce closed his eyes and sighed.

"Alex, so good to see you again," she said, moving to hug him too at Bruce greatest sorrow.

"Will you grant me this dance, milady?"

"Sure..." she replied.

"I didn't know you knew how to dance a valse, Knox," Bruce said, refusing to let himself being mortified.

"Oh! There are a lot of things you ignore about me, Wayne. How's the knee by the way?"

"Better and better everyday," he replied with a bitter smile, catching Vicky's warning glance not to start a fight.

Knowing that it was more important to please her than to satisfy the preening rooster of his ego, he watched them disappear in the crowd and exhaled slowly. In a short lapse of time, the evening had switched from mortally boring to delightful to awfully frustrating.

"So, how's the knee?"

"I swear if one more asks me this, I'll break my cane on his head," Bruce replied to Gordon, feeling his mood reversing into sulking mode.

"Sorry, it was too tempting," his friend chuckled. "But you'd better get used to it. No one saw you in public for a while and the change is, though understandable, quite worrying. Arh... The DA's coming."

Bruce turned his head just to see John Adams arriving.

"Commissioner, Mr. Wayne. How-"

"My knee's fine thank you."

"Glad to hear it," Adams replied, "I was merely about to say how charming an evening this was. To be honest, I had some doubts about coming, considering what happened in the last two receptions you organized."

"Oh, well, if something happens, would you do me a favor and tell my insurer I was sober tonight?"

"Er... Are you?"

"Until now," Bruce said, tapping Adams' shoulder. "But it's cold outside, I might need a little warm up."

"Billionaire humor." He heard Gordon say as he limped away, relieved to escape the DA's claws.

However, as elections were coming, he knew he was not rid of him for tonight.

As expected, he spent his evening roving from group to group, smiling and politely asking if everything was at anyone's convenience, refusing numerous offers to sit down, too often not to feel insulted by this excess of solicitude, especially when it always seemed to come just as he caught sight of Vicky. By the time he got rid of the fusspot, she was nowhere to be seen, and he resumed his wandering even more frustrated.

Sometime around ten, he had finally just seen her elegant silhouette on the dance floor when a hand grasped his arm and dragged him away.

"Did you see my new campaign, Mr. Wayne?"

"You mean, the slogan 'Believing in Legacy'?" he replied to Adams, turning away promptly to keep Vicky in sight and hide a dark look. The  _Globe and Mail_  was about to reveal that the man had a bank account in the Caimans Islands. 'Burying Legacy' was closer to the truth.

"Exactly. Dent was the man the city needed, and people still believe in his legacy, I believe in it for my part-"

"I know how your adversary is going to play with it, Mr. Adams. You'd better organize your argumentation fast. If you'll excuse me," he said as the music stopped. He was not going to let someone steal Vicky from him this time.

Decided, Bruce fought his way back when someone all a sudden knocked in his shoulder. His cane skidded. Caught off guard, he could not avoid to fall.

"Oh, I'm so very sorry, Mr. Wayne!" a voice exclaimed while another guest helped him picking himself up.

"Nashton?!" Bruce asked, frowning. "What are you doing here?"

"I needed to talk to you but you did not answer your phone."

"For good reason," Bruce replied, silently nodding to the people around him asking if he was all right.

"Look, I think I found a way to overcome the instability in the matrix, in the alignment of-"

"Nashton!" Bruce cut, irritated. "Not now."

"It will only take you a second. Okay, maybe a little more than a second but I really want to try- Hey!"

"Is everything fine, Mr. Wayne?" a security guard asked.

Bruce sighed and dismissed the guard. "Look, Nashton, we'll talk about this tomorrow at the first hour in the lab."

"My first hour or your first hour? Because there might be a slight distortion here."

"Eight am. Are you okay with this?"

"Eight? Hmm. That will leave me three hours to plan and run a few more tests-"

"See you tomorrow, Nashton," Bruce said, watching Vicky talking with the mayor behind the scientist.

"Oh, okay. See you to- but hey, don't drink too much all right? I need your brain cells to be aligned."

Bruce felt his jaw drop to the ground while some of the guests hastily turned their head away, probably to hide smirks. Sighing heavily, he then resumed his way on the dance floor. Unfortunately, he had not covered three feet that the music sprang again, and in a blur, he saw Vicky dancing away with the DA.

Downright frustrated, Bruce headed toward the chairs set along the high windows, and sat there. If everybody was so anxious to see him sulking in a corner, then who was he to deny them this joy? Like Knox said, to satisfy people's fantasies was the best medicine man had ever invented and  _The Sun_  should be prescribed in place of antidepressant. Bruce shook his head, desperate about his sorry fate.

"And if I took care of that knee of yours now?" a soft voice suddenly whispered in his ear.

Bruce opened his eyes and raised his head, his embarrass to have dozed off swept away by thrill.

"Now... like in right now?"

"Hmm."

A smirk lightened his face as he stood up, and dragged Vicky along the windows. They sneaked behind the orchestra and out of the ballroom, strode across the quiet dining room where the musicians had put there material and coats. Bruce then led her in a succession of living-rooms until he reached a small, private boudoir richly decorated. As he closed the door behind him, her hands suddenly tightened just on his bruised rib.

"What?" she asked, worried as he could not keep a faint hiss of pain.

"Nothing," he said, raising his hands to her face. His lips brushed hers as she retreated a step, and stared at him.

"I fell on a roof yesterday evening. I didn't tell Alfred so-"

"You fell from a roof?!"

"No, on a roof. In fact, it was more a deck than a roof."

"You were on a boat?"

"A yacht," he smirked. "A huge yacht."

"This is all fun for you, isn't it?" she said, stopping him for kissing her.

"Hey, you left me alone. I got bored," he said, attracting her to him to finally put that kiss in the hollow of her neck.

Vicky let out a small squeak of pleasure and moved her hands to stroke his neck when the door suddenly opened.

"Oh! Sorry," a voice said, "Vicky?!"

Bruce straightened and took a deep breath to keep from bursting.

"Alex?!" she cried, "What the heck are you doing here?"

"Er... I... I was searching for a TV, that's all, I swear."

"Down the corridor, sixth door on your left," Bruce said curtly, impatient to see him leave and considering installing locks on all the manor's doors, not just his bedroom and the study.

Muttering something inaudible, Knox closed the door while Bruce, irritated, dragged the heavy chair against it and wedged its back under the doorknob. "Here. No fusspot anymore."

"Where were we?" she said as he came back and stroke her face.

"Just there," he replied before kissing her.

But a minute had not passed by that a strong knock sounded on the door.

"Mr. Wayne, I'm very sorry to disturb you, but a situation arose that you should be notified."

Bruce felt his eyes grow wide at Gordon's voice.

"Mr. Wayne? I... er... Take your time. Hmm. I'll be in the TV lounge."

Vicky began to chuckle at the Commissioner's embarrassment, or at his expression, Bruce could not be certain. Taking a deep breath, he let his head fall against Vicky's chest, defeated.

"You'd better go."

Bruce straightened. "You do find this amusing, don't you?" he growled as Vicky bit her lips to keep from laughing.

Shortly after, Bruce limped down the corridor with her.

"Can you?" he whispered to Vicky upon catching sight of Knox on the TV lounge doorstep, trying to force his way in.

"Sure," she replied.

With a certain relief, he then watched her drag the _Sun_ 's journalist away with the promise of all the remaining dances in the ball.

"What do you find him anyway? I bet he can't even-"

Bruce closed the lounge's door shut before hearing the end of Knox's attack.

"There's been an accident in Pettsburg shunting yard about thirty minutes ago," Gordon explained as he walked in and stopped in front of the wide screen showing a fireman intervention. "A train failed to stop and collided with another one. At least three tanks are leaking gas, maybe more. And several caught in fire."

"What kind of gas?" Bruce asked, worried.

"Sulfur hydrogen; chlorine," Gordon continued, "The firemen came to warn us that we're just outside the evacuation perimeter and the wind, for now at least, is blowing the gases further East."

"They evacuated the city?"

"It's on going," Gordon nodded, "The highway is closed so they told us to keep people in until they give us the all clear."

"It might be better to switch the ventilation system on recirculation mode until then," Bruce said, nonetheless concerned by the carbon dioxide. Even if the ceilings were high, the guests were quite numerous tonight.

"Alfred went with a fireman to install a gas detector near your main ventilation system air-intake in case the wind turns."

"Oh, good idea," Bruce replied, "That will save us a couple of hours if they have some trouble controlling the situation. I guess they'll keep us posted?"

"Twice an hour or if there is any change."

Bruce sighed, feeling a slight headache rising. "I'm going to check with Alfred that everything's working fine," he said, leaving Gordon just as the mayor entered.

Both men apologized for the near collision, and careful not to move faster than he should with a cane, Bruce headed toward the garage.

"Alfred?" he cried, frowning to see the lights still on though it was lifeless.

Thinking that his friend was still outside with the fireman, he walked toward the service door on the Roll's left side.

The garage light dispelled the night.

"Alfred!" he cried, crouching on the snow-covered ground just as his instinct warned him about a close threat.

A second too late. Pain exploded in his skull and he hit the ground hard.


	30. Chapter 30

Vicky Vale yawned as she opened the garage inner door.

"Bruce?" she called, wincing at the throbbing pain just above her right eye.

Massaging her temple, she surveyed the huge space and frowned upon seeing a black Ferrari parked between the Rolls and Alfred's Jaguar. Why had he chosen such a color? She wondered as she stepped forward, a little annoyed, though she understood from Alfred that the Ferrari had yet to be seen on a road. Bruce was not driving out alone nowadays during daylight at least; all part of his new cover. Where was he? The mayor had said he had seen him going there a short while ago.

Vicky leaned a hand on the shelf on her left and took a few deep breath to ease her pounding headache. The evening had been delightful until now, but the jet lag was taking its toll on her. She had to go back to her hotel soon, or risk falling asleep on the spot.

Thinking she had missed Bruce, she walked back toward the corridor when the service door on the Rolls' left side creaked open. A stream of freezing air brushed her nude shoulders and sent shivers spreading across her skin. Exhausted, she pivoted on her heels and gasped. A fireman in full equipment had just come in. Worry grasped her.

Maybe a fire somewhere in the manor was the cause of the turmoil. In the cave? That would explain why Gordon- no. Vicky shook the idea away as she remembered that Knox wanted to sneak in the TV lounge. Certain that something important was happening, she pushed aside her exhaustion, and moved toward the man.

"Hello," she said, "Er... Have you seen Mr. Wayne?"

"Stay inside the manor, miss Vale," the man said, his voice distorted by the mask.

Vicky stopped and raised a hand to her forehead, wincing in pain. It now felt like her brain was about to burst through her eardrums. Her heart sped up in her chest just as her legs buckled under her. A strong hand suddenly caught her arm and kept her from falling.

"Thanks..." she whispered, her tongue furry.

"Na Zdorovié."

Na what? Vicky frowned as the man helped her sit down. She was tired. So tired.

"What's goin' on?" she whispered, fighting to stay conscious. Her eyelids were too heavy to lift and sitting too difficult to maintain. She needed to lie down. Why was breathing such an effort?

Vicky was feeling herself collapse when the man suddenly let out a strangled scream and fell on her. A dull panic rose as she tried to move the weight compressing her rib cage, but she was too numb, and the world around her darkened.

A slight smell of sandalwood all a sudden invaded her nostrils, familiar and appeasing. With it came a warm pressure, soft and salty against her lips; air filled her lungs and she gasped.

Vicky's heart leaped in her chest as she began to pant. A reassuring hand stroke her face.

"Try to take deep, slow breaths," a familiar, growling voice said.

"Bruce?" she whispered as the blurry outlines of a white room slowly came into focus.

Confused, she was blinking to force her sight to clear when she saw a dark shadow moving fast in front of her and made her jump.

"Alfred? Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm feeling better by the second. Go, master Bruce, do not worry for me."

Vicky frowned, troubled to see him in the Batman's armor, save for the cowl.

"Stay here. Do not move out, either of you," Bruce said.

She stared at him, worried. He looked wild. What had happened to him?

"Vicky?! Did you understand me?"

She jumped again. Understand? Stay here? She nodded quickly, her heart racing in her chest again as he kissed her before rushing away.

Still feeling his lips on hers, she raised herself on her elbows and sat up on a dark, smooth surface to cast a circular glance at the Batman's control center. Her eyes grew wide as she caught sight of Alfred sitting in front of a wall of screens, holding a bloodied handkerchief on his head with one hand while typing fast on the console with the other.

"Alfred?" she cried, leaping to her feet.

Something fell on the ground with a creasing sound and a fierce shudder of cold spread on her skin. Teeth chattering, she leaned a hand on the table, crouched to pick up Bruce's tuxedo vest, and wrapped it around her shoulders before staggering toward the old man.

"How do you feel, miss Vicky?" he asked her as she crashed more than sat down on the chair next to him.

"You're bleeding..." she said, terrified for him.

"Oh, do not worry. Head wounds always look more impressive than they are," he replied before turning his attention back on the screens.

Not quite reassured by his words, she raised her eyes and stared at the video feed from a dozen different surveillance cameras in the manor. In all the squares, people were lying on the ground. Fear grasped her.

"What's going on?" she whispered just as the lights died out in the manor.

"A robbery," Alfred replied as the rooms appeared again in clear shades of grey with a stunning precision.

So this was how Bruce managed to see in the dark? she wondered, her eyes widening upon seeing the silhouettes of at least a dozen thugs disguised as firemen crouching next to unconscious guests, taking objects from them before putting their loot in bags.

"Master Bruce, five rogues in the reception hall, two in the east corridor, two on the dance floor and one climbing the stairs."

A shadow suddenly passed in front of the camera showing the two in the corridor and vanished as quickly. Vicky jumped again, startled by the swiftness of the fierce attack. Both rogues were not there anymore.

"Wh-where is he? Er.. are they?" she asked, aghast.

"On the ceiling."

"What?" she said just as the man in the stairs disappeared at his turn.

Vicky swallowed a lump, and tightened Bruce's vest around her shoulders to relieve a shudder, though this one was not cold-induced. She now understood why the Batman inspired such terror in the criminal underground. Not that he had been less efficient in the forest or on the Kummura - she would not be here if he had not been - but it was one thing to be in the middle of the trouble with him and another entirely to assist coldly through a video feed at a methodical demonstration of his skills.

No ordinary skills, she realized.

Vicky slowly straightened, searching to see him before he could move. To no avail. He was a shadow in the shadows.

The League of Shadows.

The name of the terrorist organization that had tried to destroy Gotham three years ago, surfaced in her mind, and made her shudder. Ra's Al Ghul was their leader's name. A feared man, at the head of an organization of assassins sired in the depth of the Himalayas. The police reports on the members Batman had neutralized said that they were dressed like ninjas.

Who could defeat ninjas?

One of them... She answered, watching him eliminating three more men in barely three seconds. They did not stand a chance in front of him.

Vicky let out a long, tense sigh.

Bruce Wayne, trained assassin, reformed, coming back to his city just in time to save it from the wrath of his former fellows, declaring war to the criminal underground.

Only conjectures, she told herself.

Bloodcurdling conjectures. And some that would certainly explain why Bruce was not particularly talkative about his years off country.

Vicky bit her lips and slightly shook her head. She was more than perplexed, she was at a loss. At a loss to know if she must felt reassured that Bruce was not in any danger, or horrified that the quiet and charming man she loved could switch to such a dangerous fellow in the blink of an eye.

"Alfred?" she whispered, "The fireman in the garage, he spoke Russian."

The old butler turned a tense gaze at her.

"Did you hear this, master Bruce?" he asked.

A short beep echoed.

"Master Bruce, I detect movements from several guests. People are stirring back to consciousness. I don't like this..." Alfred then muttered. "Get out! Now!"

* * *

As Alfred's warning echoed in his ear, Bruce heard a cry:

"The Batman! The Batman's there!"

Bruce turned his head and realized that the guest was staring straight at him despite the darkness. A red alarm blared in his mind and he switched off the sonar view. Damn. The lights were on. Thinking fast on his feet, he took out his grappling gun and aimed at the chandelier above him. There was only one way out of the grand hall, and it was the windows.

"Everybody lie down!" Someone yelled as he flew above the shocked crowd.

Bruce threw his legs forward to swing toward a clear spot at the bottom of the closest window. Shots echoed and bullets crashed against his armor while a disorganized mob hysteria ensued. And just as he disengaged the rope and fell, he saw a group of three stepping right in his trajectory. Eyes wide with dread, he stopped his front roll and reversed it so as not to crash into them. But the hurt was done.

"Batman! Surrender!"

Wincing, Bruce straightened up with the small mine to blow the thick glass of the window ready in hand. He could not throw it anymore without injuring people. Tense, he looked all around him. Dozens of police officers aimed their gun on him, frightened, confused people in between. There would be no easy way out of this.

"Don't try anything foolish, Batman." A familiar voice said on his left.

Bruce craned his neck and saw Gordon, gun in hand, coming his way. How could things turn so sour so fast?

_"I'm going to switch the lights off," Alfred said._

"No," he growled. Whoever had switched them back on knew where the electrical panel was and might still be there. This was a trap. He did not want Alfred to risk being killed.

_"The Tumbler perhaps, sir?"_

"What?" Gordon replied, confused. "You certainly do not think you can escape a room full of police officers?"

"Tempting idea," he growled, watching the disarray on Gordon's face increasing.

_"The Tumbler then. Could you wait for your taxi outside, sir? Terrorist attack is still not covered by your insurance."_

Bruce nodded and slightly opened his palm so Gordon could see the mine.

"Okay," the commissioner whispered, "Everybody back off very slowly."

"What?" The policeman closer to him asked, troubled.

"Do as I say. Everybody move out."

As people slowly started to clear the room around him, Bruce kept the cops under close watch, not daring to move yet. The wild, quick glances that they exchanged with each other, and the restlessness of their feet worried him. Any slight increase in the tension and they would fire.

"Oh my... he has a hand grenade..." a guest then realized.

At that instant, a roar sounded and glass shattered along with pieces of concrete from the wall.

Cries reverberated as the Tumbler's nose stopped in front of him in a screech of tires. A flock of bullets sliced the air around him and struck the vehicle as he dived into the cabin. The mine still active in his hand, Bruce drove backward, wincing for his manor, and disappeared in the icy darkness swallowing his property. He would have gone straight down the hill toward Pettsburg's boundaries if it was not covered by a treacherous layer of snow. Instead, Bruce veered on the pathway, and through his opened window, cast the mine as far as possible. He barely heard the explosion above the screaming sirens of the police patrols giving chase.

Eager to attract them away from his lair, he then drove down the winding road toward the highway.

"Alfred?" he asked, "What's the situation up there?"

_"A bit chaotic, sir, but I fear your absence will not stay unnoticed very long. I took the liberty to send miss Vicky in your bedroom to provide you with an alibi."_

Bruce felt his eyes widening. "An alibi or a trap, Alfred?"

_"A sorry mistake if you don't hurry back up, sir."_

"Sorry to disappoint you, Alfred, but I have other plans in mind. Go upstairs and say that my knee hurt too much for me to stand up anymore. I took painkillers and a sleeping pill for the night."

_"As you wish, master Bruce. May I ask what are your other plans?"_

"Pay Valienkovitch a visit."

Bruce heard Alfred gasp.

_"Be very careful with the Russian mafia, master Bruce. The last decades proved they are significantly more violent than the most dangerous criminal groups in Eastern Europe. The Italians are altar boys in comparison."_

"I know, Alfred."

A lump rose in Bruce's throat. But it was not from fear. It was from guilt. By eliminating the Cosa Nostra, and keeping the Camorra at bay, he had cleared the path for the most powerful mafia ruling the criminal world to set foot in Gotham, proving the old saying "better the devil you know," was a wise proverb indeed. Finally, maybe he was nothing more than the sorcerer's reckless apprentice opening Pandora's box, thinking he was up to deal with whatever would go out. Anyway, it was useless to scourge oneself. What was done was done. All that remained was to face his responsibilities.

Tonight, he would stop Valienkovitch.

* * *

"Nekompetentnyy! What do they need more? I give them the Batman on a dish; must I paint a red target on his face too to have them shoot him?" Valienkovitch exclaimed, throwing his glass still full of bourbon into the television.

The three whores sitting on one of the nearby white leather loveseats, at good distant from the Penguin's emissary, let out cries and jumped. However, they did not move away too much and that annoyed, irritated the Russian even further. He had never seen the girls so afraid of anyone. Even he had to admit that the man had something in his eyes that froze the blood in his veins. And considering that he had worked with his lot of crazy bastards, that was putting it mildly.

His cellphone buzzed in his pocket.

Tense, he cast a look at Sergueï, the closest of his four bodyguards present in the yacht's lounge at the moment, and beckoned him to take the girls away. He would need to relieve his nerves later tonight.

Then, he turned around and answered the call.

"Da," he said.

The Penguin's voice crackled in his ear. As sharp and cold as ever. Three words. That's all. And the communication cut.

"Svoloch!" Valienkovitch spat, furious to be considered a petty, second fiddle.

Fists clenched, he turned his eyes toward the Penguin's man. The son of a bitch was smirking.

Usually, such a reaction would seal the idiot's fate, more or less painfully according to his mood. Tonight, the agony would certainly be slow to come. His adversaries like his subordinates knew that, and it was the reason why no one dared to mess with him. The other reason of his success in the crime organization was due to a sharp survival instinct that made him aware of who to eliminate and when. Right now, his instinct told him to get rid of his guest fast, and yet, he could not give the damn order. If he did, he knew he would lose all the life he had built for himself. All his empire. And he had no wish to go hiding in a hole like a miserable rat.

Valienkovitch slowly exhaled his bitter frustration to see himself, a secular oak carried away by a stream like a common stick.

He had always feared that one day he would make an error and associate himself with the wrong person. That day had finally come.

"Our common friend asked me to go with your plan, Mr... I didn't quite catch your name."

"Freeze," the man replied.


	31. Chapter 31

Less than thirty minutes after losing the police patrols in the Pettsburg outskirts, the Batman stood on top of a warehouse on pier thirteen. It was a short one, barely a hundred feet long, that connected Uptown's scarce maritime industrial zone with the touristy area from which cruise ships for the Bahamas departed.

None of the luxurious giants of the seas was docked tonight, and Batman was observing a much smaller yacht two piers away. However, size was a relative matter. With its hundred-feet long and thirty-feet wide build, Valienkovitch's catamaran was too big to fit in one of the marina's anchors, and had been attributed a ring in the over-sized section of Gotham's port, the Ten's Club.

Batman wondered once more who Valienkovitch had bribed to enter the Ten's. The city's inner circle of wealthy owners of yachts was more selective than a NASA space program, and the waiting list longer than the distance between earth and the moon. He remembered that his father, despising the boundless social arrogance of the Ten's members, had refused an offer to be attributed a ring. Batman sighed and discarded the thought with a slight growl. He had to focus and began inspecting the boat's surroundings. Something was fishy.

Usually, four to six impressive yachts were docked any time, a couple less in winter. But tonight, the Russian's ship was the only one. No light filtered from the large bay windows and streamlined portholes; no henchman's silhouette could be seen on any of the three decks. Everything seemed to indicate that Valienkovitch was absent. And that was just weird. Since he had arrived in Gotham, the man had never left his floating palace. So why would he have left it without surveillance tonight?

He needed to rethink his intentions.

At first, Batman had thought about scaring the Russian out of his skin after neutralizing his men and calling the cops; sinking his ship had crossed his mind too. A very mafia kind of warning to stay out of his territory. It was a language he knew Valienkovitch would understand loud and clear. But he had curbed this impulse to lower himself to such methods. It would serve no other purpose than to relieve his nerves, for the Russian would be too proud or crazy and insist on staying. Moreover, he knew better than to back a powerful criminal into a corner. This was better. He had a rare opportunity to search the boat, find some compromising material, and place electronic snitches.

However, there was always the possibility that this was nothing more than another trap.

Batman carefully swept the area one more time. The new mask-embedded polarized polymer was a marvel of technology. Keeping his eyes concealed at all time, the polymer reconstituted his surroundings in high definition thanks to the sonar while the infrared pinpointed any significant source of heat without blurring the sight too much like in the precedent version, making the dual vision at last possible.

The way was clear.

Promising himself a warm shower by the end of the night, Batman climbed down from the roof and moved back to his Tumbler to change his armor for his frog suit. Then, he crept toward the edge of the pier, and like a seal, he slipped in the dark, cold waters of Gotham's bay.

A moderate wind coming from inland, remnants of the strong storm that had blown at the beginning of the week, troubled the sea and Batman could feel the erratic movement of the backwash above him. It took him longer than he expected to reach the end of the jetty where the catamaran was docked. Cautious, Batman checked his trajectory before diving again. Fifty yards further, he silently surfaced just under the belly of the ship's cross-section, between the two arrow-shaped hulls, just under the wide porthole that offered an aquarium-like view of the sea for the people on board. For a brief second, he expected the bluish lights to switch on and reveal his presence. But nothing happened and the porthole remained dark.

Without a sound, he then swam toward the stern and hauled himself out of the water just enough to cast a look on the rear deck. Still not noticing any presence, he then boarded the ship, walked around the spa, which a thick tarp covered, and silently slid open the double door giving access to the main living-room.

Batman swept the one thousand square feet area from his eyes and frowned. On the right side, the lounge arranged in front of a wide screen television was lifeless, but a pile of square packages and bills on the table left him confused. Negligence? Batman shook his head. Definitely convinced that something was wrong, he stepped forward and looked on his left toward the kitchen and chart table area.

Crap...

Two feet protruded behind the bar.

Careful not to touch anything, Batman moved around the counter on his left to take the body, and winced. It was Valienkovitch's personal bodyguard, and the tall, muscular man had a hole in his head, right between his eyes. All senses in alert, Batman stood up and cast another, sharper look at his surroundings. There was no trace of a fight; the guard did not even have his fingers clenched on his machine gun, which was still hung around his neck. Batman frowned as he tried to make sense of the scene. The guard had been killed from the front, but had not perceived his killer as a threat or did not have time to react. Another possibility was that he had been restrained by one or two other men before being killed. If that was the case, the pathologist would find bruises on his arms. Would Valienkovitch have ordered his death? Retaliation for the fiasco at the Charity Ball?

Batman rejected the idea. Even if the Russian had some good reasons to be furious again, he did not believe that was the motive behind the bodyguard's execution. Nor did he believe that Valienkovitch was responsible for it. The man would have been thrown overboard to feed the marine life, not left to dirty the kitchen's tiles.

So who had done this?

Feeling his hair on his neck standing on end, Batman slowly walked toward the spiral staircase leading to the Russian's private deck.

If this was a case of a score to settle by a rival gangster, the drugs and money would not have been left behind. Gordon would have told Batman about a raid or drug bust, and in any case, the place would have been cordoned-off. Same thing with the Feds. A government black-op operation then? he wondered just as he reached the upper level.

His blood froze in his veins.

No. No black-ops, he told himself, biting his lip to keep himself from cursing out loud. They might be efficient at eliminating a target, but they were not capable of this.

The Russian boss was sitting on a chair with a woman on his lap, while another woman lay at their feet, curled into a fetal position. All were nude and seemed frozen like...

Batman's eyes widened out of dread as he recognized the scene of the Bodies Exhibit about the cycle of life.

It could not be...

Bile burning his throat, Batman turned his head away to take a deep breath. This sick feeling of horror, pure revulsion, he knew it. He had already tasted it. A year ago in a sinister alley covered by a thin layer of snow. But that could not be. A part of his mind refused to acknowledge what he had in front of his eyes, while his brain kicked into gear to find another explanation. Anything that would prove that his instinctive thought was wrong. For one, he would have known if Fries had woken up from his coma. The Feds would have warned Gordon. It was a coincidence. After all, the bodies, save for a bullet hole in each head, were intact. That was not Freeze's modus operandi.

Realizing that he was holding his breath, Batman made a conscious effort to relax his muscles and decided to analyze the scene before calling Gordon.

Keeping an ear and an eye alert on his surroundings, he began to take a sonar-view video of the whole scene with his mask-embedded camera.

Like with the bodyguard on the deck below, there was no sign of a fight, no ransacking, though a slight pungent odor that he had not detected earlier now stung his nose. His gaze lowered on the ground. There was no obvious trace on the wooden floor suggesting that the murder had been committed in another part of the ship.

Again Batman got the feeling that something was amiss in his theory.

Valienkovitch and his girls had died rather quickly. And after all he had read about the Russian mafia, this did not sound right. Could this be the mysterious Penguin? Valienkovitch seemed not afraid, but at least wary of him in his conversations. But what was his objective in granting a quick, painless death to a disappointing subaltern, and then create a grim scene to shock? By all means, Valienkovitch had been lucky to die so fast. That was the message coming out of this set-up. It would not inspire fear, even less respect for the new boss.

So fear and respect is not the goal, he told himself.

Or the Penguin had discovered that the Italian mafia had tried to copy Freeze to attract him on the crime scenes and kill him. These crude murders were then a warning. A warning intended for him personally.

Feeling his guts twist, Batman resumed filming, completing the disgusting but necessary close-ups. He stopped again. There was a thin, oblong paper, about the size of a professional business card in the Russian's hand. A raspy cough seized him. Clenching his jaw to silence it, Batman deactivated his sonar and took out a small flashlight to take a better look at the card.

A dull fear rose within him. It was a ticket. A ticket for the Bodies Exhibit. And beside the photo of a dissected human skull, three words were written:

_I've got her._


	32. Chapter 32

_I've got her._

Batman stared at the words until a cough seized him again. The acrid odor was strong. There was a chemical product vaporizing somewhere.

Holding his breath, he bent to look beneath the bed when he heard a faint but very characteristic series of beeps.

"Crap," he muttered.

Quickly, he put the card in his belt and rushed toward the double door and the outside deck. He had barely crossed the threshold when the bomb blew up and sent him flying into the air. A rain of debris hit his body as he fell into the water. Ignoring the burning pain in his left side, he dived and swam away. Only when he estimated the distance safe did he break the surface. Treading water, he then stared for a moment at the bowl of fire consuming the sinking ship a hundred feet away, confused. He could feel the heat from the flames on his skin but barely registered it because he was too preoccupied to make sense of what had just happened. Had he triggered the bomb in some way? A motion detector maybe?

I've got her.

Fear crashed on him like a rogue wave. As sirens grew louder in the distance, Batman dived back and swam away as fast as he could. Freeze intended the crime scene for him only, allowing him just enough time to analyze and discover the clues. But where had he taken her?

Shivers of anger made his muscles shake as he hauled himself out of the water into the much colder air of the night. His jaw clenched, he mingled with the shadows of the cranes, crept between two lines of containers and around the warehouse from where he had made his survey earlier, and reached the entanglement of railroads. At each step, he had to force himself to focus on his surroundings, and not run. Time was of the essence; he just did not have time to play hide and seek with the police because of reckless haste.

But it was hard. A part of his mind reminded him that he had not been fast enough already once. But then, he knew where to go, or at least he thought he knew... tonight, he had no clue.

At the crossing, Batman suddenly stepped back between two wagons to let a firetruck drive up the road running along the docks. He waited, tense in the shadows, for the police patrol that followed not far behind to disappear before stepping out into the open.

The Tumbler was parked a hundred yards further, in the rail road tunnel that ran toward the bridge for Midtown and its larger maritime industrial zone.

Batman dived in the cabin and closed the door without a sound. First, check with Alfred, he told himself as he ignited the engine and turned the fans on maximum heat. While he voice commanded the phone to call his old friend, he removed his frog suit with a wince of pain. Confident that the Tumbler's polarized glass would remain opaque, he switched on the interior light and noticed that his fingers came red with blood. Alfred's voice message sounded in the cabin.

"Damn..." he muttered, before adding more clearly: "End call. Redial."

With a wince of pain, he stretched a hand to take the medkit out from under the passenger seat. But as he opened it, Alfred's recorded voice sounded again. His breath shortened.

"Fries is back. Vicky is in danger."

His heart knocked hard in his chest as he left the warning and cared for his wound at the same time, a two-inch long gash on his left side, just below his bruised rib. Probably a shard of glass had hit him. His head hurt too and the chemical product had left a raspy taste in his mouth. He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes to control a wave of nausea.

The whole attack on the manor was just a mean to attract him away. He had her. Fries had Vicky...

 _You don't know this!_  he berated himself, biting his lip as fear threatened to sweep him like a powerful rip current.

Batman forced himself to take a deep breath to keep the panic at bay.

There were several perfectly normal explanations for Alfred's silence. That a medic was tending to his head wound was one. His old friend might not want to go to the hospital right now, but maybe he had not been left any option, especially with Vicky next to him. But what were the odds? His heart rate increased and his breath shortened again as he took out the ticket.

It was an entry for Philadelphia's exhibit – the Gotham one had closed six months ago – but the detachable part had not been removed. Batman gasped, not certain if there was a clue there are not. It was unlikely Freeze would have taken her so far.

A shudder ran down his spine. He had just caught the date on the ticket: December seventeenth. That was almost a month ago. He did not know what was the most dreadful; that the killer was on the run for so long, or that the feds had silenced his escape for as long.

_December seventeenth?_

Batman frowned, searching through his memory, looking for why the date felt familiar. His eyes widened as he suddenly remembered. True, he had been sick enough that month for the notion of time to be a bit fuzzy in his mind, but it was not everyday one woke up in jail, faced a judge after breakfast, saw an old shark stepping out of the shadows by noon, and crashed a chopper full of mob killers on a house by midnight.

December seventeenth had been a long, trying day from dawn to dusk for him. It had also been the end of Victor Fries' hope to cure his wife.

The Tumbler's wheels skidded on the gravel as Batman accelerated abruptly, and drove into the tunnel.

While he headed fast toward Midtown on the rail road network, his mind rushed to analyze the situation. If he remembered correctly, Fries' cottage had been built on a steep terrain overhanging a lake. One accessed it by a winding path going down from a secondary road. It was a nice but isolated place, a dead end, with not much room to maneuver, and never mind hide a surveillance unit. Moreover, none of the closest neighbors had a direct view on Fries' property. The local police might drive by a few times a week to check that the house had not seen any visitor, if the feds had warned them.

_I've got her._

Fries was on a bloody path of vengeance. His house, a symbol of both his past happiness and present torment was likely the place he had taken Vicky.

One circle of bright light in front of him forced Batman to leave the rail road. The GPS immediately showed him alternatives and he turned left on the first street, then right on a dark alley. Careful not to attract any police patrols, he crossed the island toward Sheal's suburb, his mind preoccupied by the disappearance of all but one of Valienkovitch's men. Had they defected and worked for Fries now? It seemed unlikely, but he might better consider the possibility once he reached the killer's house. The worst case scenario was finding himself caught between Valienkovitch's former henchmen, guarding Fries' house, and one or two SWAT units led by feds to arrest the serial killer.

This thought crushed his hesitation about calling Gordon for back-up. Too many people had already risked their lives; he would face this alone.

Barely fifteen minutes later, he rushed straight ahead in a curve and boosted the Tumbler to leap above the wire fence that protected the main road from the wildlife venturing below the high-tension line. He drove hillside until his GPS indicated that the house was four-hundred yards on his right. The Tumbler would be far away if he needed it, but it was the safest place to hide it.

Batman shut down the engine and stayed still with his hands on the wheel for a moment. He could not rush into a trap without a plan. But for that, he needed to determine the forces against him and their position. Eight men were present yesterday evening on the yacht when he had dropped an ear and recorded the conversation he was working on earlier this evening. If only he could have sneaked an electronic snitch, he would have a better understanding of the present situation.

_The Penguin..._

Could Fries be the one the Russian called the "Penguin"? Considering his taste for cold environment, that could fit the character. Though Fries did not seem the joking fellow; the "Penguin" was more probably a nickname Valienkovitch had saddled Fries with.

A detailed scan of the trees and underbrush not revealing any human presence, Batman stepped out of the Tumbler and crept in the shadows. The fresh air filling his lungs did him a world of good, easing both his nausea and his headache, while adrenaline dispelled his fatigue. And to help him, the slight wind that whistled in the branches covered the faint creaking of the snow under his feet.

A dozen minutes later, he lay down next to a stump, a couple of yards from the edge of Fries's property. His tension increased a full notch.

A small truck and two imposing four-by-fours were parked in the driveway; the hoods gave a diffused, yellow gleam on the infra-red reading, indicating that the engines were still warm.

 _So I'm at the right place_ , he concluded, shifting his focus on the house.

For a non-initiated eye, the half-demolished house might have simply been in the path of a tornado.

The left side, where the helicopter had crashed, had been entirely cleaned up; plywood planks and canvas closed the rest of the house while metallic poles and beams stabilized the upper level all around. No light filtered out. Batman cautiously crawled toward the lake to get a better view of the rear part of the house. Because of the slope, the basement was at ground level. He found that it was also the less damaged part. And still no sign of human life. They were all in. They must know that the shadows were his domain, and waited for him to go in the open where there were not many places to hide. They would not miss him.

Batman winced in anticipation of armor-piercing bullets.

That did not bode well at all, but that was the nature of traps.

An idea taking shape in his mind, Batman crawled toward the lake. The terrain was uneven, and as he expected, there was a small cliff further up that dived down approximately fifteen feet onto ice-bound rocks.

A smirk distorted the Batman's lips.

Always give the arrogant devil what he wishes for, he told himself.

Like in Ducard's exercise to seize the old temple, capture was not avoidable tonight. But unlike it, there was also no villager to rat on him this time. And all he needed was to attract Freeze out, not to seize the house. He knew how mercenaries thought. If the source of money was neutralized, they would fly away when they felt the heat.

Thrilled to have a plan, Batman moved back to his Tumbler, cautious not to run. Once there, he quickly removed his armor, and put on his frog suit before dressing again. It was tight and too rigid for his liking, but he would need the extra protection more than his freedom of movement.

Less than ten minutes later, he lied down again on his previous position. To his relief, nothing had changed.

Batman took a few deep breath to ease his rushing heart. The rocky promontory where the old temple defied the harsh weather of the Himalayas appeared in front of his eyes; the dangerous crevasse that spread at the bottom... Once again, he forced his muscles to obey an order going against his instinct, and crawled forward, until he reached a position he was certain could be seen from Fries' house's second floor.

Ducard's sentinel had not waited long to fall on him.

However, he knew by then that his fellow trainee would not kill him. Doubt seized him as he waited. He hoped that he was right in his assumption that Fries did not want him to die too fast, and that his henchmen would not aim for the head. In that case, he would probably not even realize that he had committed his last mistake.

A brief sparkle caught his eyes.

The impact on his right shoulder sent him to the ground.

The pain was sharp and for a moment he wondered if he was really injured. But that did not matter. He had a role to play now. Batman dragged himself on the snow, and straightened to his feet. A second bullet hit him in the rear of the left thigh. Clenching his teeth, he collapsed on the steep ground and rolled toward the cliff. At the last moment, he slowed down his fall, and jumped down on the rocks.

What kind of plan is this?! he berated himself as he lay down on his back in a defenseless position with a wince of pain. At least, he did not feel the warmness of blood on his limbs. His double layer of Kevlar had been efficient enough to stop the bullets. He would just be black and blue for a while. If he survived.

Batman forced himself to stay still, and waited, eyes opened wide on the top of the cliff. On his sonar view, the tortuous protruding roots of the skeletal trees above him looked like the hands of Death stretching toward his neck.

All a sudden, the creaking steps in the snow announced a coming threat. Two men appeared, aiming automatic rifles at him. There was a circular shape attached below each barrel. Flashlights probably. They did not move for an instant.

"We've got him," One of them said in a walky-talky.

Shortly after, a third man appeared next to them.

"You two go down and check if he's still alive," the latter ordered.

Upon hearing the distinct Russian accent Batman mentally cursed.

None of them was Fries.

Patience, he thought while he watched the henchmen climbing down toward him, utterly unaware that he could follow each of their movements with a stunning precision.

One of the thugs slid a bit fast and jumped to avoid falling.

A mix of fear and thrill made Batman's heart pump blood in strong fits and starts.

They were on him.

The rogue tested his reaction by giving him a small kick. Batman let out a weak rattle but did not move.

"He's still alive."

The man who had remained on the top of the hill transmitted the piece of news through his walky-talky.

"Take him to the basement." A voice said through static.

Under the mask, Batman's eyes sharpened to two small slits. He had recognized Fries' cold voice. Damn! At once, he understood his mistake. Ducard's compassion for him had made him rush to his aid in the crevasse; he should not have counted on the same feelings to push Freeze out of his lair.

"You heard the bastard," the man on top of the cliff said. He was obviously in charge.

Batman thought about his options quickly. Either he let himself being captured, or he neutralized the three men on the spot. But that still left four others plus Freeze. He would not get any closer to the house than before. The best was to go on with the ploy.

"Looks heavier than a moose. We need a rope to tie him and haul him up."

"Dima! Prinesti verevku," the leader commanded in his walky-talky. "Are ya sure he's out?"

Batman saw the butt of the rifle sweep down on his face. His jaw burned and the metallic taste of blood invaded his mouth.

Bastard! He thought, forcing himself to relax and let his head fall on the side.

"He is now."

A fourth man appeared on the leader's left, and threw a rope down, saying: "Ser Freeze told us to mistrust that freak."

"Did he tell ya to mistrust him too? I hate that bastard... why don't we kill them both right away? That's what the Penguin wants anyway."

Batman saw the barrel of a gun spring less than two inches from his head. His fist clenched.

"Alexei!" the leader barked. "The Penguin pays us enough not to discuss his quirkiness."

The man called Alexei lowered his gun with a curse, and picked up the rope at his feet. While they tied his hands in front of him, Batman analyzed the worrying piece of news. So Fries – Freeze – and the Penguin were two different men. And above all, the Penguin wanted him and Freeze dead. Obviously, the latter had overestimated Valienkovitch's former men's loyalty. They would turn on him as soon as he would have satisfied this quirkiness, whatever it was.

Batman pushed the thought aside while they lifted him off the cliff. Staying still was not easy. His shoulder and his thigh ached from the impacts. Restless, his mind rushed to analyze all the possible scenarios he was going to be confronted to. At least, the Russians had tied his hands in front of him, and he could tell the ties were not strong enough to resist him. The possibility that it was deliberate brushed him. It was certainly something he could capitalize on.

They dropped him in front of the basement's door like one throws a two-hundred pound bag full of rocks at the end of a military exercise: with a sigh of relief and a deluge of insults against the drill sergeant.

The door opened, and someone dragged him inside the house.

At once, his sonar provided a detailed view of a thousand square foot room. All kinds of furniture had been tossed against the obstructed windows, freeing the space in the center for a ten-foot high, and four-foot wide circular tank. A diffused vapor escaped from its top, fell to the ground, and spread around a bath tub. Next to it stood a half-deflated isolation bubble on a platform; the two hoops that maintained it upright were connected to machines that Batman could not begin to guess a purpose for. To say the least, the sight of all this equipment was incongruous, and sent a cold shudder running down his spine. It looked like a weird laboratory. But where was Vicky?

A mechanic hissing sounded.

While the bubble started to inflate, Batman saw the killer straightening up from behind the tank.

"Leave us," Freeze said.

The tone surprised the Batman. There was no anger in it. No rage. Freeze seemed in control of his emotions. From the corner of the eye, Batman watched the four henchmen walk out without a word, and even a certain alacrity.

"We don't have much time," Freeze muttered, seizing a long stick that was wired to a plug in the wall.

Batman saw it reaching for his exposed neck, and reacted fast. Despite his tied hands, he grabbed the stick and hit Freeze in the guts with it. Training movements kicking in, he swayed it above his head and swept Freeze's legs. The next second, the killer was lying on his back, the electrified prod standing an inch from his throat.

"Where is she?" Batman growled, still not catching any other thermal signature in the room other than Freeze's.

"You must love her a great deal to rush here alone into an obvious trap."

"Where is she?" he growled again, finding hard to keep his voice under control. Was she in the bath? Not in the tank... please... He wanted to call Vicky, but his instinct stopped him. Never make things personal. That was the base. Ducard and Alfred agreed on that rule.

"Do you know how the bodies are prepared for the exhibit?" Freeze replied, raising on his elbows as if his position did not worry him in the least.

Batman's heart missed a beat.

"Fascinating how simple the process to immortality is," the killer continued, unaware or not caring about the subtle but deadly change in the Batman's posture. "However, I prefer to use cryogenic conditions instead of formaldehyde to keep the body from decomposing during the dissection. You must know why by now."

The words chilled Batman's blood.

Get a hold on yourself... he told himself. He is gaining time.

Jaw clenched, Batman dug the electrified pod in Freeze's shoulder.

While Freeze collapsed, and convulsed on the concrete ground, he rushed toward the bath tub. The sight made him grimace. It was full of a viscous compound. A cryoprotectant, he told himself, pivoting fast toward the tank. His breath got stuck in his throat. Nobody could survive such treatment. With a cry of rage, he then turned toward the isolation bubble.

Using the sharp teeth on his forearm protective plates, he tore the plastic canvas apart and saw an arm falling out. A strong smell of acetone escaped from the bubble as he grasped the body inside and dragged it out just as the vapors caught fire. Batman threw himself to the ground, protecting Vicky's rigid body under his cape.

While the flames retracted above the Batman, the most unspeakable anger rise within him, overwhelming his mind, forbidding him from thinking at all. And when he raised his head and stared at Freeze, slowly regaining his senses less than ten feet from him, his eyes were bloodshot by tears. He would have thrown himself at the serial killer's throat if a part of his soul did not anchor his feet in the ground, while another just flatly refused the reality. It could not be Vicky's body under him. She could not be dead. He was going to wake up sweating and breathless in his bed.

But the heat of the flames behind him felt all too real.

"It is unbelievable how sickness can make you feel weak, impotent..." Freeze said, the voice void of emotion. "After a couple of days, you don't even remember what it's like to be healthy, not to be in pain anymore... you won't feel anything but pain now. Your whole life... like me... that will leave you on your knees every morning, begging please... for mercy..."

Batman shuddered. All a sudden, it was as if the earth beneath him had opened beneath him to spit Harvey Dent's ghost out from hell. The DA's terrible breakdown after Rachel's death, the total madness carved in his face. Like the Joker, he had pushed Freeze in the same dark abyss, the same ordeal. And like the DA, Freeze wanted Batman to feel the wrath of his pain. He was Freeze's Joker... and Vicky had paid this horror with her life.

One of the Penguin's henchmen's voice sounded through static, distant.

"The cops are here!"

In the next second, a gun fight burst.

Batman raised his head from the ground and caught Freeze's glance. The man was smirking. An alarm blared in his numbed mind, but before he could react, Freeze kicked something at the base of the tank. At once, a boiling foam spread on the ground.

The drainage valve!

Aware that the atmosphere in the basement was soon going to be unbreathable, Batman took a deep breath, jumped to his feet, and threw himself after Freeze in pursuit. He was not going to escape so easily.

Batman was climbing the staircase when a series of short explosions sounded, covering the racket of the gun fight that raged outside. While the house collapsed on his head, he leaped on Freeze. They crashed through the kitchen's wall into the corridor. A heavy beam fell next to them. Already weakened, the floor gave way beneath them, and they both fell back in the basement with a rain of debris. Batman felt the edge of the bath tub digging in his kidneys. While the fire took advantage of the fresh oxygen, Batman extirpated himself from the viscous liquid, and rolled on the ground next to Freeze. He was digging his forearm sharp teeth in the latter's throat when drops of water covering the cryogenic tank caught his eyes and stopped him.

 _Not water!_  His mind screamed. It was liquid oxygen, formed by condensation.

With a cry of rage, he seized Freeze by the collar and dragged him toward the basement's door just as a terrible explosion sounded.

The blow in his back felt like a fifty-ton truck launched at full speed hitting him. It threw him through the door and into the freshness of the night. Batman rolled into the snow faster and faster, unable to stop his fall toward the lake. And when it did, it took him a moment to realize that he was lying flat on his stomach in two inches of water. Coughing, he raised on his elbows and slowly turned on his side. Not a bone did not complain to the movement. Forcing his pains aside, he straightened up to his feet, stepped forward, deactivating his sonar view.

Batman fell to his knees.

The house looked like a giant torch in the dark sky.

How long did he stay prostrated like a vanquished samurai, hands flat on his thighs, head slightly bowed, waiting for the winning adversary to come and behead him, or at least give him the honor to slice his guts open himself, he had no idea. This was a time when one did not have to bear the burden of shame, or the pain of defeat, or guilt. It was not fair, he knew. But he did not care.

Somewhere, a part of his mind registered that the gun fight had ceased. He also noticed the creaking of the snow under feet next to him. Voices. Whispers. Someone saying he was not responsive, that he might be injured. He recognized the last voice. It was Montoya's. She added to Gordon that she did not dare to come closer to him. He was freaking her out. The steps moved away.

"What is it with you and burning houses?" Gordon asked, stopping next to him.

Batman kept himself from shrugging his shoulders. His back hurt. Everything hurt. Meditating had helped him in the monastery to lessen the pains, make one with them. Detach yourself... He closed his eyes.

"Hey, com'on. Time to move out. I passed the firefighters on my way."

"Talk about speed limits..." Batman whispered, but the smile did not form on his lips, even less reached his eyes.

"Well, I'd give myself a ticket, but for now we have to move our asses away and fast. Especially yours. Think you can move?"

Batman slowly shook his head.

"Vicky's in there..."

"What?"

"Freeze. He killed her... and I left her burning inside..."

"What are you talking about? Vale is safe with you know who."

Batman straightened and turned his head toward Gordon, confused.

"Sheal's sheriff is a good friend of mine. He warned me soon after your stunning escape about movements around Fries' house. Alfred immediately grasped that Vale was in danger, and your place being compromised, he took her away without losing a second. I don't know where."

At the news, Batman felt his heart rushing in his chest with an inexpressible hope.

"His phone..." he whispered, trying to make sense. He had tried to join Alfred not once but several times.

"He destroyed it so nobody could track them. Said it was safer that way. You should have called me."

Batman's eyes went from the commissioner to the house. The heat from the flames was almost soft on his exposed skin. If not Vicky, then who was the woman who had died in there? And where was Freeze? With a growl of pain, he stood up and scanned the place around him when he detected steps coming toward them. A shot of adrenaline electrified his muscles.

"It's okay. I had most of my men under my hand tonight. I hate to admit it but those who are here are even more loyal to you than to me. A kind of fifth column," Gordon said just as Montoya called them.

"Commissioner! You'd better come and see this. Both of you."

Dizzy from the emotional shock, Batman hobbled toward the lieutenant, crouched less than twenty yards on their left under the cover of the first trees. The shaped at her feet looked like a body.

"I think he's still alive, sir. Should I call for an ambulance?"

Batman arched an eye out of surprise upon seeing Freeze lying on the snow, a hole between the two eyes. It was still seeping blood. Next to him, Gordon let out a heavy sigh, and nodded, saying:

"If he survives, he'll have a cold cell in Arkham all for him- Crouch down!"

In the blink of an eye, Batman saw the red dot at his feet, the sniper in the tree, and Gordon's instinctive reaction to push him out of the way. Refusing the sacrifice, he punched his friend away with one hand, a batarang already in the other. But an impact on the top of his cowl sent him to the ground before he could throw it.


	33. Chapter 33

 

 

 

_**Two weeks later.** _

A thin but persistent rain had been falling continuously since yesterday, swallowing the cemetery in a cold and diffuse veil. Impervious to the elements, Bruce Wayne slowly limped up a small alley bordered by graves and mature oaks. Despite Alfred's offer to take him further, he had preferred to walk all the way from the entrance gate. His old friend had not insisted too much, and he had been grateful on the moment, but he admitted that he did not feel exactly over-confident right now. His steps were more and more hesitant, and his weight on the cane made its tip dig into the waterlogged ground.

Bruce paused again and took a few deep breaths while he waited for his sense of balance to stabilize a little. Then, he set his eyes on the distant line of buildings, barely visible in the rain, and resumed his way, straighter. At least for a couple of yards, until the rain would make him lower his gaze on the ground and he would lose the precious immobile spot that kept his wounded head from thinking he was in high seas.

However, how unpleasant being sea-sick on terra firma was did not matter very much. It could have been worse, so much worse than losing one ear.

Well, to be more accurate, it was the Batman who had lost one ear, not him. The bullet had veered on the impact and snatched the left, upper appendix of his cowl. Thankfully, the head trauma had been less severe – less definitive – than it should have been.

How Gordon had managed to take him back to the manor was still fuzzy in his mind. During his visit yesterday, Gordon had confided that, once they headed in the right direction, it had taken them over an hour to cover the four hundred yards back to the Tumbler, adding, not without a certain mischief, that it was interesting how a one-eared bat flew like a one leg sloshed billionaire walked and raved.

There again, Bruce was grateful, both for the partial amnesia and for Gordon's presence at his sides in that painful moment, especially since Alfred was not at the manor to help him. Not that the commissioner had been a more gentle nurse than his old friend. Resorting to smelling salts he had found in the medkit, Gordon had woken him up every hour to do some basic maths or answer some trivia questions. At some point, Alfred and Vicky had taken the helm; he remembered seeing Lucius too in a blur. Three days had then passed without him noticing them.

Bruce paused again and took some deep breaths to control the nausea that did not leave him each time he was up. According to Lucius, he had to take it easy for at least a couple of months. He did not relish that particularly.

Bruce swallowed hard, and very slowly, he turned his head to look around him. Rachel's grave was less than ten steps ahead.

With difficulty, he walked toward the oak tree growing across and sat down on the damp grass between two imposing roots. For a long moment, he only stared at the drops bursting at his feet, overwhelmed by souvenirs of the last time he had been here. He saw himself, standing straight in the crowd gathered around her empty casket. It was the day following his three-story fall with Dent in the rubble where she was murdered. Now, to think of it, it surprised him that he had been able to stand for the two hours the ceremony had lasted. It was true that he had been under morphine that day. He wished he was again today.

What am I doing here? Bruce wondered.

His throat tightened as he removed the deep red rose from under the protection of his jacket.

Now that he was there, he did not feel like he could stand up and move away. The same feeling of being trapped at the bottom of the well in his garden embedded his body in the cold ground beneath him.

How this simple day could have changed his life so drastically...

As he felt again the used planks yielding under his weight, Bruce remembered his father's hand stretching toward him while he lay groggy, cold and scared at the bottom. He had clenched his teeth so tight not to cry both from the pain in his dislocated shoulder and the relief of being rescued.

The well. His life always turned around it, fell in it... Rachel telling him next while he replaced the planks that she would not share his life while he was the Batman.

Was she already afraid that someone would use her against him? Place him in a position with an impossible, harrowing choice? Or that she just did not feel strong enough to endure seeing him going out every night? Waiting for him to come back, and finally being alone in a certain way. A ghost relationship.

In a moment of weakness, Rachel had told him what he wanted to hear that evening in his penthouse, just before he took the decision to surrender himself to the authorities, but she had been right all along. There was no normal life for him. No normal life for them. Even if he gave up. He would have been sent to jail for what ten, fifteen years? She would have wasted the most beautiful years of her life waiting for him, when other young couples built their family, and had children he did not want to have anyway under the circumstances.

She had deserved better.

Bruce felt warm tears running down his cheeks and he blinked several times, but more came out as he wondered once more if things would have been different if he had not come back at all.

But he knew it would not have changed Rachel's fate. She would have been killed by Falcone's henchmen that night on the station. And again the night when she had pushed Jonathan Crane into a corner at Arkham Asylum. And again when Ra's Al Ghul had freed the fear toxin in the Narrows... again and again... Like Alfred said, he could never have put her independent character and strong dedication to her duty under a cloche for protection.

No matter the angle he looked at the problem, the number of what if's, she always ended up here, in the cemetery, well before what should have been her hour.

Bunring tears now ran freely on Bruce's face, melting with the cold rain; he did not make any effort to stem them.

And now, the same pattern was coming out with Vicky. He had saved her already too many times.

Two days after the Charity Ball, Alfred had found a syringe under the Rolls. Lucius had examined it and the result still stuck his breath in his throat. Melphalan, a chemotherapy drug that had mild to drastic side effects, from nausea to bone marrow failure. Thankfully, Vicky's blood tests had come clear, and she would be under close surveillance for a while as a matter of precaution. But Lucius said they would have search for a long time before finding what was responsible of her worsening health if Freeze's man had succeeded in injecting her with the drug.

Without his intervention in the garage, she would have been poisoned.

Vicky's luck, and his as well, were going to run out, one day or another. It was only a matter of time.

Bruce slowly shook his head, more bitter than despaired to realize that Freeze had won.

For a moment, he had believed that he would be able to have a normal life. But Freeze had made his point sharply. There was no normal life for the Batman.

And there was no turning back either.

As Gordon said during the Charity Ball, the city's crime rate kept on improving. The number of murders had dropped from six-hundred-seventy-four to four-hundred-thirty-seven this year. Of course, Gordon had quieted his real thought and only congratulated the police officers present in the room at the moment, though sometime after his speech, he had offered Bruce a glass of champagne, whispering that saving two-hundred-thirty-seven lives was certainly an achievement worthy of celebrating. Even if the Batman had not personally saved all these people, he had given the city a momentum for things to head toward clearer skies, toward a new dawn. A fragile remission.

Gordon was concerned that if Batman ceased showing himself and threatening the common thieves, rapists, and aggressive junkies roaming the streets, make them think twice before committing a crime or assaulting an innocent passer-by, it would not be long before the rates would spike up to previous levels. And maybe even worse.

So here he was standing again, at a false crossroad, a mirage. To give up or continue was not really a choice here. Not only he had not done all this for nothing but Freeze's lesson had been hard enough.

His mistake, not to check with Gordon before rushing into Freeze's trap, had almost cost him his life, without speaking of his sanity. The Batman could not do his job if he was emotionally vulnerable.

That hurt. That hurt very deep.

Maybe it was the reason of his presence here today finally. Since Rachel, he had not felt closer to someone. And like Rachel, he needed to convince himself it was better to let Vicky go away.

The Batman had become a necessary evil. And evils worked alone at the bottom of the darkest well. His was Gotham.

Bruce swallowed a lump, and nodded to himself. Then, he picked up his cane, and slowly stood up. Biting his lips to keep his sorrow in, he walked toward Rachel's grave, and put the rose next to her picture. His eyes lingered on her smile for a couple of long seconds, then he straightened and turned away.

Solitude was not his worst demon to live with.

* * *

**DIVING INTO ICY DARKNESS**

* * *

_AN: That's it, this story is finished. I hope you will have liked it even if I admit, it was not the funniest fic in the fandom. As I need a break and a good laugh, like Bruce right now, next story will be of a much more lighter tone :) somehow, I miss the jerk playboy from the first movie. I want to see him come back, even for a short period._


End file.
